The 175th Hunger Games: Will Your Tribute Triumph?
by Chocolatiee
Summary: It's the Quarter Quell and the Capitol is allowing the tributes to recieve alterations. Mental and physical, they can enhance or decline your tribute's game. Will your tribute triumph?
1. Submit!

Yeah. I'm making another SYOC thing. And not because I'm merely too lazy to create my own characters, but because it was extremely fun writing the last one and I hated to finish it. I know how these work, and I'm determined to finish yet another one.

I needed to post this ASAP so I did not get any more female submissions and had to turn anyone away. I have twelve females.

But of course, it's the Quarter Quell. Naturally there's a twist:

For years the Capitol has been working on improving their own lifestyle. Such as alterations on their physical appearance and improvements in technology. This type of knowledge will be implemented in these Games.

The tributes will have an assortment of alterations to choose from. Some are physical, some are mental. They are listed below. Please, when submitting your tribute, only choose ONE alteration. Not one knowledge and one physical. One out of everything.

I'll list the pros of each enhancement. The cons and side effects, well, you can figure that out yourself. :)

From here on out, please only one tribute per person. I'm getting low on spots.

And I'll cover sponsoring once we get the tributes in.

**Knowledge Based Alterations (Applied by a microchip inserted during surgery on the tribute's brain)**

Edible foods knowledge. This knowledge will include what plants, berries and roots are edible or poisonous, what animals are safe to eat, and what environments to find each one. If your tribute isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, this may come in handy.

Survival knowledge. Your tribute will learn how to do things such as start fires, conserve their food and water to make it last longer, and tie different types of knots for snares. Also pretty nifty if your tribute doesn't like to think much.

Weaponry knowledge. For this your tribute may chose ONE weapon (please specify what weapon that would be) to learn how to wield. They will know proper techniques of handling said weapon. _However_, this does not increase their strength. They will only learn said techniques. If you choose a trident, and your character is a weak little thing, then it'd probably be futile to choose this.

Healing knowledge. After the surgery, you tribute will know as much about medicine as Mrs. Everdeen, and possibly even more. They'll know what herbs help with burns, how to correctly bandage a deep wound, etc.

Navigation knowledge. This won't automatically give the tributes a map of the arena in their minds, but it will give them a great memory. You need to find that stream again? That banana tree? Don't worry 'bout it; you already know where it is! Also good for navigating through mazes.

**Physical Based Alterations (Applied simply by**** surgery, such as how liposuction or laser eye surgery is put to use in modern day society)**

Increase of upper-body strength. Your tribute will gain more muscles to the upper body and will be able to hold large weapons better, and climb and swim faster. Also gives them a slight advantage in hand-to-hand combat.

Increase of lower body strength. More muscle to the lower body. They are able to run and swim faster, as well as jump longer distances. This will give them a bit of an advantage in hand-to-hand combat as well.

Increased stamina. They can now run, swim, climb, you name it for much longer periods of time. The others may be faster, but your tribute can outrun them by far!

Enhanced sensory: hearing. Your tribute will be able to hear the snap of a twig from a mile away, and overhear the other tribute's important conversations without risking being too close.

Enhanced sensory: seeing. The tribute will be able to see in vivid detail up to three hundred meters away, in the dark. Great for seeing up tall trees, down a cliff, or simply at night or underground without the use of night vision goggles.

Enhanced sensory: smelling. Poisoned water? No problem. Your tribute can smell that from a kilometer away. They'll also be able to smell the way a dog smells: once you take in a scent, you can track it for miles!

**Submission form:**

Full name:

Preferred district:

Gender/Age:

Alteration chosen from above (like I said, please choose ONE out of EVERYTHING):

Appearance:

Personality:

Family/Friends/Background:

Strengths, preferred weapon:

Weaknesses, pet peeves and biggest fear:

Token? :

Strategy:

**Optional:**

Would they make an alliance? If so, with who? (Careers, the other twelve year olds, etc.):

_If _possible, could I put them in a relationship? :

Outfits for reaping, chariot, and interview:

What is their opinion on the Games? :

Other:

**Open spots: (The response I've gotten so far is tremendous, for females. But I still need male tributes. Also, if the district isn't listed then it isn't available)**

District Two: Male

District Three: Male

District Five: Male

District Eight: Male

District Eleven: Male

District Twelve: Male

**Right. So, that's it.**** Many people have wanted me to write this and I already have a lot of characters in, so as of now it is no longer first come first serve.**

**If you have any questions about the alterations please PM me and I'd be glad to answer them. **

**Submit those characters!**


	2. First and Last Tribute List

A/N: I was _not_ expecting such an immense amount of submissions. But, as of now, I am not accepting any more tributes. The final list is below.

To those whose characters did not make it in: I'm sorry. But if you would still like to participate in these Games, please PM me because I have a few other ideas for you guys. :)

As a look into what the next quick chapters will be: The first four chapters will be reapings, (D1, D2, D3 and D4). The next four will be on the train, (D5, D6, D7 and D8). Two for chariot prepping and chariot rides (D9 and D10), and then two for the aftermath of the chariots and the tributes' first night in the Capitol (D11 and D12). Then two more for training (including the characters' scores) and two for interviews, and then we're into the Games.

I feel that not only you guys should know the characters before the Games start, but also that _I_ need to get to know them more. I'm going to make those sixteen chapters as interesting as I possibly can, and update very frequently, and this way when we head into the killing everything and everyone is a bit clearer.

Anyways. The list:

**District One:**

Male: Evan Palmer (17)

Female: Victory Lux (18)

**District Two:**

Male: Kimberly Guerrant (18)

Female: Palilalia 'Lia' Kingston (15)

**District Three:**

Male: Farrow Alliyatt (17)

Female: Anna-Marie Schleben (17)

**District Four:**

Male: Dillon LeDron (17)

Female: Peyton Bieda (16)

**District Five:**

Male: Summer Whitesell (17)

Female: Nan Weatherall (13)

**District Six:**

Male: Mick Revelain (15)

Female: Levve (Lay-vay) Morton (18)

**District Seven:**

Male: Trey Lancaster (13)

Female: Natalia DeGuzman (16)

**District Eight:**

Male: Naller Mahlon Versteeg (16)

Female: Angel Kramer (16)

**District Nine:**

Male: Senn Birch (16)

Female: Bambi Zvoner (16)

**District Ten:**

Male: Keed Ogle (18)

Female: Sale Stride (15)

**District Eleven:**

Male: Birch Coleo Jernehy (14)

Female: Luna Night (17)

**District Twelve: **

Male: Luke Cove (16)

Female: Calla Lilly Warbucks (17)


	3. District One Reaping

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. That'd be the epic Suzanne Collins. **

**I also do not own Victory Lux or Evan Palmer, the characters you are (hopefully) about to read about.**

**Great. ****Now that that's settled, let's get on with it.**

**Victory Lux's POV**

Why can I win the Games?

Well, I think it'd be easier to ask the question why I_ can't_ win the Games. But I'll humor you.

First of all, look at my name. _Victory. _Not only am I named after my grandfather who won within the first three days the Games began, but do you understand how high peoples' expectations are for someone named Victory? Pretty friggin' high, if you're not smart enough to catch on.

Second of all, I may be a career—who isn't in District One these days?—but I'm different from all the others. And I'm fully aware that everyone must say that, that they're _sooo_ unique and interesting, but it's actually true in my case. I actually have at least a fourth of a brain cell that I am totally capable of putting to good use, unlike those guys in the training centre that laugh and shoot spitballs every time someone comes in to teach us about edible plants or whatever. Those guys will die. I don't care how big and handsome they are. They're just walking corpses.

Lastly, I want it. I don't just want the riches and the house and the boys proposing to me. I want to _win._ Money is irrelevant. Marriage is extraneous. I'll win, and when I do, I'll come back home to see the surprised faces of everyone that has doubted me in the training centre. Of everyone that's suppressed their smirks while I swing a mace at a dummy's head, and has whispered to their friends, "Look at little Victory. She thinks she can win."

Damn straight I think I can win. I _know_ I can.

After a few hours of parrying in the training centre the day of the reaping—excuse me, the day of _my_ reaping—and listening to Zeus and Gleam's flirting, which has completely ruined the friendship we've had for over ten years, I run home right in time to find my mother cooking my favorite breakfast: bacon and eggs. This manages to cheer me up a bit.

"Vicky," my youngest brother Lethal says as I take a seat at the table beside him. His name isn't Lethal for nothing. He's only eleven, and yet I'm pretty sure that he can beat me in a sword fight. "Kat says you said you're volunteering this year."

Through a mouthful of bacon I go, "Yeah, well it isn't like I'll be able to volunteer next year. And I'm ready."

Kat, my fifteen-year-old sister, snorts at that. She stands in the doorway to the kitchen in just socks, shorts and a baggy shirt, scratching one of her ankles with the other. "You're about as ready for the Games as escorts are pessimistic."

I snort back with a quick roll of my eyes. "And I'm sure _you're _very prepared, Kat. You haven't even gotten over puberty yet."

Lethal and Leo, my other little brother, burst into giggles. Kat scowls at them. "I never said I was. But when I'm your age, I will be. I won't be some blonde-haired blue-eyed chick that would rather read books about _knots_ than learn how to use a bow and arrow."

"I don't know the last time you looked in a mirror, sis, but you _are_ blonde-haired and blue-eyed."

She opens her mouth to retort but my mother steps in at that point. "Enough. Eat. Then you'll go get ready."

We all obey. Kat comes to the table and sits with the rest of us without wiping the frown off her face, forking the bacon and eggs down her throat, and then stands up and races up the stairs to get ready. I'm wondering what her sudden rush is until I hear a door slam and the shower turn on. Cursing, I leave my food and dart after her, banging my fists against the bathroom door. No use. Clearly she isn't coming out until we have to leave.

That's just lovely. I'm going to smell like sweat for my big day.

In my room, I look at the dress my mother has laid out on my fluffy white comforter for me. It's dark blue to match my eyes with a tight bodice, which then poofs out slightly once past my waist, travelling down to inches above my knees. It's my favorite dress. And it's going to reek by the end of today.

I slip it on, zipping up the back with some difficulty but eventually succeeding, along with some flat silver shoes with a bow at the point where my toes are. Now, hair.

I'm unable to do a lot with my hair considering a certain idiot is currently hogging the shower, but I run a brush through it and put Kat's homemade curlers in. She must have forgotten them before running to the safety of the bathroom. Once again, idiot.

Then I rub a small amount of charcoal over my eyelids to bring out my eyes even more and put some shimmery stuff on my lips, completing the look with blush on the apples of my cheeks, and admire myself in the mirror. I look good; there really is no point in denying it. If I didn't have a terrible odor emitting from me then I could be perfect. And I kinda need to be perfect. This is _my_ reaping. Not Kat's. She doesn't deserve to ruin it for me.

I think I apply half of my mother's perfume bottle by the time she and my father announce that we're all leaving and whoever isn't outside in the next few minutes will have to deal with the Peacekeepers. I dash down the stairs and out the door, the first outside. Lethal is next in his dress shirt and tie adorned with swords. Then Leo comes in almost the exact same outfit as Lethal. And finally Kat. Who is wearing—

My dress. She is wearing _my dress. _No, she's in _this_ dress. An exact replica of my own.

I blink at her. Then again. And again, only hoping that I can blink away this sight. How is that my fifteen-year-old sister, who wouldn't know an edible plant if she ate one, can look better than me?

—

I volunteer. I don't even have to think twice about it. Some guy I think I've seen now and again at training volunteers as well, and I know that he's my future ally and everything, but I'll just deal with all that later when I have the effort and the time and nobody winces when I shake their hand because of the heavy amount of perfume I've layered on. Not only must I now prove myself to my peers, but also my family, who probably thinks that Kat has more potential to win the Games than me. But oh, we'll see about that, Kat. We'll see about that.

Since I'd rather not look at her face again I refuse visitors and sit down in the lavish, plush room I'm stuck in, picking at my cuticles and awaiting the Peacekeepers who will lead me off to the train, to the arena, and to my victory.

**Evan Palmer's POV**

The Treaty of Treason is quite possibly the stupidest speech I've ever heard annually. And, in District One, we sure get a lot of annual speeches.

But making everyone suffer through it _every freaking year_ is just unnecessary. Do they think that people actually listen to it? I have the whole thing memorized by now so even if I wanted to listen intently like some of the twelve-year-olds up front, I wouldn't hafta. _Out of the ashes rose Panem… _yadda yadda yadda, blah blah blah.

But, then again, I guess that that's the point of it. To be memorized.

"Dude," one of my friends Matt whispers as the mayor, some pudgy short guy, talks about the districts, "I'm going to volunteer."

Funny kid, that Matt.

"Are you?" I say quietly back, trying not to draw any attention to us. "I don't know about _that_."

He nods his head vigorously. "Nope. I do know about it."

I force a smile. The corner of my mouth twitches. "Alrighty. You do that then."

The escort Reetley, in her usual Capitol get-up with bright pink hair, pale pink skin and a sparkly pink dress, literally skips to the big glass ball that holds all the girls names. She plunges her hand through the small slips of paper for a while before picking one out and clearing her throat dramatically, trying to build up the suspense. Honestly. I've been standing here listening to that fat mayor for who knows how long and she just wastes more of my time.

"Jaylene—"

"I volunteer as tribute!"

The entire crowd turns to look at the eighteens section where the crowd is parting to let a petite girl through. She's small, but her chin is high in the air, with her bright blonde hair flapping behind her like a cape and eyes as wide as freaking saucers. I can't settle on whether the eye thing is attractive or just… weird. All I know about her is that she's smarter than most of the other girls in the district.

"What's your name?" the escort asks, jumping around on the balls of her feet like she's never seen a volunteer before.

"Victory Lux," the girl replies firmly, not taking her narrowed eyes off the audience.

There's a long, awkward pause. But Reetley recovers quickly. "Let's find out your district partner, then!"

She does the same routine she did before—prance to the other side of the stage, ruffle through the slips of paper, clear her throat—and before she can even read the name I yell out, "I volunteer as tribute!" at the exact same time as Matt. Dammit. I thought I'd beat him to it.

I feel all my other friends' eyes burning into my back as I stick out my leg and trip Matt. I'm all for friendship, but we'd discussed who was going to volunteer this year at the training centre. And you know who we all decided on? Me. It's embarrassing if, after I've volunteered, somebody beats me to it.

And maybe Matt is just as humiliated as I would be if I were the one sprawled out on the hard cement ground, but once I come back I'll make it up him and buy him a diamond-studded watch or something. Yeah. There we go.

I shake hands with the girl Victory and she tilts her head and gives me half a glower and half a smile, like she can't decide about if she wants to come across as friendly or menacing or somewhere in between. I just grimace back.

Once in the waiting room, my parents rush in. My mother embraces me while my father stands back a little hesitantly. He used to be a sword trainer for the tributes of the Games until he met my mother, who is a victor of the Games, and then, well, yeah.

"I'm sorry we made you this way," is the only thing my mom tells me as she holds me out at arms-length, and I'm about to ask her what she means by that when my dad pushes her out of the way and hugs me himself, slapping my back and telling me that I can do it, I can win it, and there's no other way to see it. He's always pretty optimistic about a lot, despite how he trained kids how to use a sword before they all walked away to their death.

I manage to murmur an agreement before the Peacekeepers inform them that their time is up. More hugs are exchanged. I think my mother might be crying, but I can't really be sure because, although the room is bright with gems and beautiful furniture, the lighting is faintly dimmed.

The doors shut with a _click_ behind them and it feels like there's a sense of finality within that click. Like that may be the last time I see my parents, and that's that, nothing can be done to change it. But, no. It isn't the last time I'll see them, so I shake myself mentally before my crowd of friends barge into the room, nearly running over the two Peacekeepers who're guarding the doors.

There's Darian, David, Riley and Matt. Everyone besides Matt is speaking at once and I can't understand crap, but when he clears his throat like the escort did everyone shuts up to look at him, wondering what his reaction to my tripping him will be. I only cross my arms over my chest and wait.

"Good move," he finally tells me. "But you better come back or I'll bother you the rest of your life about how all that effort went to nothing."

I laugh, a little relief leaking out that everything between everyone and me is all right, and give him a man-hug, along with the rest of the guys who all wish me good luck, just about stampeding over the Peacekeepers who come up from behind them to guide them out again. Once everyone has left the room I allow myself to collapse onto a fluffy red couch horizontally, staring up at the high white ceiling with the tiny bumps on it. The Games. I'm in the Games. There's no turning around, no backing down—in a matter of days I'll be in that arena killing people.

And that's that.

**A/N: Couldn't resist that little victory/Victory pun at the end of her POV. Sorry. xD**

**Review? (:**


	4. District Two Reaping

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I still don't own the Hunger Games **_**or**_** these characters. Dang it. **

**Palilalia 'Lia' Kingston's POV**

The training centre is closed on reaping days and nobody but me knows that the sky roof window easily comes unlocked with a thin hairclip. It's early in the morning—the sun hasn't even touched the horizon yet—as I make my way up the fire escape, onto the roof and then, with one deep breath, allow myself to drop into the gymnastics section of the training centre below me. My feet hit the padded mats as usual, and I sigh with relief. Still in one piece.

The gym is dead quiet. My footsteps echo off the shiny floors and walls and weights that I'll never be able to lift while I make my way to the bow and arrow area. I find it relaxing, that one overriding sound in the complete stillness.

I inspect the bows until I find the one I normally train with, the one that fits in the palm of my hands like it was carved particularly for them. I load it, pull back the arrow and close one of my eyes, aiming for the bull's eye. I release and take a glimpse at where my arrow landed—the center ring. Perfect.

Once I've shot another few arrows I decide that no matter how much I do this I'm not improving. I can shoot flawlessly when nobody else is here. But as soon as there're people around me talking, distracting me, I screw up. If I want to get better then working on _that_ is what I should be doing. Not this.

Oh well. Does it matter? What else do I have to do?

There would be no point in going back to my house. There are hours until the reaping starts and it isn't as if my parents or siblings are going to miss me, so I take the time I have to myself to go over to the gymnastics section with a knife. Standing on a balance beam I reach over with one hand and do a cartwheel, not losing my balance for a moment, and throw the knife at a dummy a few feet away. It hits the thigh. Not fatal. Not at all.

I try this three more times until I manage to hit the throat and, just a hint of a smile at the corners of my mouth, I make my way out the front door and run home to get ready for the reaping.

"Hey Echolle," I greet my older sister as I take my first steps into the house, rubbing my muddy boots off on the small green welcome carpet. She sits at the undersized kitchen table, eating an apple. "Where're Mom and D-dad and—"

"Hi, _Palilalia_," she cuts me off, voice dripping with sarcasm. Really, only Echolle could make something like my name sound sarcastic. "They're with Dysar at the neighbour's. Said something about an out of control weed situation before they left." Her hand flies around in the air as if to dismiss the subject. "They just said to get ready and they'll meet me there."

"U-us?" I correct. "You mean they'll meet-t _us _there."

"I should _probably_ mean that. But I don't. Just manage the stutter and go get ready."

I don't want to bother with a fruitless reply so I walk down the hall to the room that Echolle and I share, rummaging through the closet for something appropriate to wear to the reaping. Because it's nice to dress up for the day two kids are sentenced to death, you know. Just _everyone_ is doing it these days.

I choose a yellow sundress. All of Echolle's nicer, fancier dresses don't really seem to suit me, and this is a little more humble than a ball gown. I slip it on with a pair of old and beaten-up, but comfortable nonetheless, sandals that strap up to my ankles and warily take a glimpse in the mirror.

My thin hair streaked from the sun looks even wispier than yesterday, if _that's_ possible. As I stare at my nose, which isn't exactly straight and ideal in the middle of my face, I notice my dark eyes getting squinty-er and squinty-er. Making a mental note never to stare and scrunch up my face like that again, I realize that I'm not completely and hopelessly ugly today—but, on the other hand, you can't exactly compare me to the District Ones or some of the other, prettier girls in the district.

Our family is well-off, but we don't have enough extra money for things like makeup and sparkly shoes. My parents and my brother Dysar work as gardeners for some of the wealthier families which explains the out of control weed problem they apparently told Echolle about earlier. She doesn't work yet, but next year she will. I still have two years at least before my parents make me bring in more money for our family, which is one of the few things I'm grateful for. Maybe I'm not the biggest party animal in District Two but I'd rather stay home and go off in my own world than water flowers and tug weeds out of soil all day.

I walk to the square with Echolle, neither of us speaking. Her because she probably doesn't want to. Me because I'm well aware that she doesn't want to.

"Have fun," she tells me before taking off to the sixteens section to her circle of friends. I stand there ineptly for a moment, tugging at a loose thread on the sundress, staring at the back of peoples' heads in front of me, stalling for no specific reason. Finally I head to the fifteens and stand beside the two girls I know best, Tinsle Heights and Honore Elantra. They're talking about who is going to volunteer and as I say hello, my stutter catching up with just that one word, the two of them turn to glance at me.

"Lia." Tinsle nods curtly in my direction, followed by Honore. They then go back to talking to each other and ignoring me, nothing too far from the norm. I take the empty seat by Tinsle and smooth out the wrinkles in the skirt of my and Echolle's cheery yellow dress, picking off yet another loose thread. I think this is a hand-me-down from my mother.

While the mayor reads the Treaty of Treason I listen in on Tinsle and Honore's rather loud conversation about how the other careers are _so_ overrated and how someone new, someone with potential, should step up to the plate this year. I lean back in my seat, piping in briefly, "They sh-should!" but they don't take the effort to even look at me. Not many people do.

The escort, I don't know his name but he's mildly normal with short brown hair and bright brown eyes, takes the mayor's place and picks out a slip from the girl's bowl. It's some sixteen year old named Reed who I have seen throwing knives around a lot in the training facility. She glares proudly at the cameras and for a moment I think what it would be like, standing up there knowing that I'd be looked at for once, that I'd be given the chance to show the district everything I can do.

But I take that back almost instantly. So what if I don't really bask in the richness of District Two? It's my home. Maybe not a great one, but a home. I couldn't leave that, could I?

But… how long can I take my sister and brother mocking me because of my stutter, my parents out gardening half the time, and everyone at school practically paying me no attention whatsoever? I'm supposed to be a _career. _I'm strong, kind of. I might not be the prettiest or have the best name in the world, but I'm a _career._ Secure. Capable.I'm believed by many to _want_ this.

I don't let myself have second thoughts.

"I v-volunteer!"

**Kimberly Guerrant's POV**

I turned eighteen a week ago. In other districts, like Eleven and Twelve, my family would be celebrating the last year we'd be put through the reapings. Mine? No. Today when I refused to get up—it's the first day we're allowed to sleep in, and they expect me to wake up at sunrise?—my mother came into my room and splashed a bucket of ice water all over my face. Needless to say, I was up.

Now I sit at the kitchen table eating some toast while my mom circles me, coaching me on precisely what to do. When I volunteer I am not to hesitate. I am to stalk to the stage with my shoulders rolled back and my head held high, no matter what emotions I'm feeling. Because in the end, I am _strong. _I am _confident. _I am a _tank. _I am Kimberly Guerrant, and I am the next victor of the Hunger Games.

Her words. Not mine. You think I want to head into that arena and kill? No. But do you think I have a choice? Still, no. My dad may be against the Games and work as a male nurse at the hospital across the district, but my mother's the complete opposite of him. Head trainer at my school, tough, a no-pain-no-gain kinda woman. Deep down, though, I'm sure she's just as caring and compassionate as I am.

"If you start crying, I will personally sponsor all of the other careers in that arena. All of them other than you. You hear me, Kimberly?"

Deep, _deep_ down, I mean. _Somewhere_ in there, I'm positive.

"Yes, ma'am," I say between bites of toast. According to my mother, loading up on carbs before the reaping is an excellent idea. It will bulk me up even more—though there isn't much more room for me to bulk up; I _am_ built like a tank, anyone will admit it—and make me come across as intimidating and daunting to my district partner and future competitors. And I may hate it, but she's right. I scarcely fit into my father's hand-me-downs anymore because my arms are too big for the sleeves.

I take a shower, throw on a suit, and let my mom tighten my tie for me. She sprays me with some nice smelling stuff, directing me to walk without delay through the nice cloud of mist, and then dubs me ready for the start of my new beginning. Although she can be very strict and unfair at times, I do love my mom. I've grown up with such a proper amount of money that I've never really wanted a lot, never hungry or cold. A portion of that comes from my father's work I suppose, and I love him just as much, but he's disapproved of my training to the point where he won't come home until he's sure we're finished for the day. And because of that I don't really get many opportunities to see him.

We're late for the reaping. I try to sneak stealthily in with my fellow eighteens, but I gain the attention of a bunch of people whose feet I accidentally step on. I mumble apologies, double-check to make sure that they're all alright and uninjured, before continuing on searching for a vacant seat. After some trouble I find one and am forced to squish between two more buff guys—not as buff as me, but buff—who I also apologize to. One of them smirks at me, I'm guessing because of the fact that I apologized, and I quickly regain myself by clenching my jaw with as much tenacity I can muster and raising an eyebrow like I'm inquiring if he would like to explain the smirk. And, like they all do, he breaks eye contact and stares at the escort.

"Let's see who the stunning lady is this year," the escort says, picking out a slip. Some obvious career girl walks to the stage after her name is called, and I resist the urge to curse. I hate the confident ones. They're the ones that, if anyone, will see through my act.

"I v-volunteer!"

We all blink in disbelief as a fifteen year old walks up the stage, much to the dismay of the career girl. She doesn't look too strong. In fact, she stares out at everybody like she knows she just made the biggest, and possibly one of the last, mistakes of her life. Immediately, sympathy washes over me. She is going to get creamed. Hopefully I won't be the one to do it, or even be there when it happens.

I can't let myself linger on that. I have to repeat those words my mother repeated to me mere hours ago. _I am strong. Confident. A tank. A victor. _I will crush anyone who says otherwise. Expectantly.

"What's your name?" the Capitol representative asks the girl.

"Pa-pah-palil." She's stuttering severely and eventually she seemingly gives up with what she was trying to say before. "Lia Kingston."

"Fantastic, Lia! Shall we choose your district partner?"

She only nods weakly.

The escort, who I thought looked normal for an escort, does a little hop-and-spin thing on his way to the boys' bowl. How can he be so happy? How can _anyone_ be so happy on such a day? Besides, evidently, my mother?

"Fr—"

I interrupt him and stand up a bit gingerly; suddenly very attentive of how big I am in contrast to everyone else here. "I, Kimberly Guerrant, volunteer as victor." Oh, that came out wrong. I meant tribute. The words my mother had repetitively screamed at me this morning must be jumbled in my head. But it works for my image, doesn't it? Confident. Strong. A tank. Victor. Yeah, works fantastically. My mother will be proud at the very least.

Going with the flow, I pretend that I meant to say that and put on a glare that would scare the meanest tribute out there. The girl on stage's eyes have widened at the sight of me, and I can't blame her for it. If I could see myself right now I'd be frightened as well.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the tributes of District Two!"

—

My mother and father are my only visitors, which isn't too surprising. It is unbelievably difficult for me to keep up the tough guy act at school while also being social and making friends like everyone else. But I don't really mind it. My mother has groomed me into this, and I've accepted that I simply must go along with it all. Any way I faced that challenge I was just going to end up where I am now, standing in a nice room painted gold and green and sitting on a white couch.

"Good luck. Come back, son," my dad tells me with a hug. My mom's provided for me, but I'll miss him more, I think. It never mattered what situation I was in, unless it involved my training, because my father was always there for me. My mother did her parenting by attempting to toughen me up by informing me not to be such a baby. It worked, sort of, but that's only my shell. What's inside is different.

"I'll come home," I say. "I'm sure of it."

I'm not. But maybe if I keep reassuring myself that I am a career, I'll start believing it.

"Yes you will," my mother states firmly, receiving a hard look from my dad. But she either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

Nodding, I hug them both once more before the Peacekeepers escort them out. I struggle to see their faces one more time, but I'm unable to, and regardless of my size and perceptible image tears begin to boil up in my eyes. They were my parents. And I will never see them again.

No. You will, I tell myself.

Because you're strong. Confident. A tank. A victor…

Who am I kidding?

**A/N: Well, these two are sure t****o spice up the other careers. They were more difficult to write than the last two. Even so, I hope it's all right and you guys enjoyed it. I find writing the reapings harder than writing any other part of the Games.**

**Reviews make me write faster. :)**


	5. District Three Reaping

**Disclaimer: Yeah. I d****on't own the Hunger Games or these characters. **

**Anyways, happy birthday to Telehphone! I'm not sure if it's still your birthday because of time zones and everything, but I hope you have/had a great day! (:**

**Anna****-Marie Schleben's POV**

I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, turning my head to see well. My father is fixing an engine, showing me which parts to turn, which parts to switch, and which parts to full-out move. As he steps away from the machine I take his place, finally just tying all of my hair back and out of the way of the rust and oil.

I know what to do here. I no longer need his assistance.

My hands fumble over the spare parts of the engine, twisting what needs to be twisted and giving a hammer to what needs to be hammered. When I'm done everything I pull the string that starts the engine and—_there we go_—it turns on with a rev. Smiling, I high-five my dad and walk out of his workshop and into the house, wiping my hands off on a cloth.

"Wash up and come eat breakfast," my mother calls from the kitchen. "Hurry. You have to get ready for the reaping."

After quickly running my hands under the tap with soap, I sit down at our small island on a stool that wobbles because of the uneven legs, my plate of breakfast in front of me and my mother standing, her arms crossed, on the other side of the island. As I pick up a fork and chew some of the sausage, she goes, "Anna. Please don't volunteer. We couldn't stand to lose you."

She's talking about me like I've already lost. Like I've already come home in a coffin, dead. But I'm not dead, and I won't be. I've been training myself for these Games since I found out what they were and, to be honest, I stand a much bigger chance at winning them than everyone else in the district. They work in the factories. I help my dad fix the mechanics that are in the factories, which gives me a little more knowledge and maybe a little more strength. And I really couldn't stand to see another little girl from our district head off while her family stands back and cries when I could be the one taking her place, saving her and her family from death.

"Mom…" I start.

"Give us one more year, Anna-Marie. Please. One more year."

One more year for me to think it over and decide that it isn't a good choice? One more year to give myself the time to stop this from happening? I can't do that. I know what I have to do. And I _want_ to do this. I want to save a family from the reaping. And I will.

"I can't, Mom. I'm sorry but I really can't."

For a moment she just stares at me, her eyes doing the pleading for her. I stare back, unblinking, not dropping my gaze, trying to show her that I have enough determination going into this to win it and that if she would believe in me everything might turn out all right. But instead of receiving the silent message she slowly shakes her head and spins back to the old stove in the corner, switches the heat off, and commands me to go get out of my working clothes and get ready for the reaping.

I don't bother arguing or saying anything else to her, I just walk out of the kitchen and down the hall closing my bedroom door gently behind me. My best clothing is hung, crisply ironed, in my closet. A forest-green dress with spaghetti straps that brings out the green flecks in my hazel eyes, and a pair of gold shoes with only a tiny heel. After I've gotten dressed and my mom's silently done my hair into a nice, intricate pattern on the top of my head, my parents and I head off to the square.

Like every year, they wish me good luck. My father's face is like a stone and I'm not able to tell what emotion he's feeling, or maybe it's plainly numbness, but I can tell visibly that my mother is pretty sad. I'm not too sure what to say to either of them so I rush off to my friends in the seventeens section.

They've saved me a seat in between my best friend Delane and a boy I know that's fond of me, Jake. I don't like him back. The only person who I've allowed myself to grow attached to through the years is Delane, and that's because I'm sure everyone needs a best friend to lean on now and again. Including me. But I haven't really interested myself in boys; when the others speak about any from school I nod and pretend to care, because if I hadn't done that what I'm about to do would hurt even more.

"You look very pretty, Delane," I tell her, and then lean over to the girl sitting on the other side of her, Alvina. "And I like _your_ dress."

The two of them return the compliments, but after that the mayor takes the stage and everyone immediately shuts up. Last year the Peacekeepers caught someone talking while the mayor was reciting the Treaty of Treason. Right after the reaping the boy was brought to the stage and given a public whipping. It truly was a day of one terrible thing after another.

"Ladies first!" the escort giggles, walking not-so-gracefully in her ten-inch heels to the girls' ball. She sticks her hand in daintily and picks out a piece of paper with the tips of her nails as if it's a spider, reading the name, "Delane Forsworth!"

Everyone looks at Delane, one of the wealthier in the district. She only had her name put in the required amount for a seventeen-year-old, so I suppose everybody is surprised. It doesn't matter though. She'll be sitting back down in seconds.

Even if someone I hadn't known had gotten reaped, I would still be where I am now: standing up from my seat while Jake tries to pull me back down, but I'm stronger than him and I can shake him off, yelling out, "I volunteer as tribute for District Three!"

Silence; we haven't had a volunteer for twenty-five years, or something like that. But after the initial reaction of it, a sob breaks through the stunned pause. My mother. I don't drag on this, or the way Delane is spitting at me to sit back down in my seat and shut up. She doesn't understand. But nobody does really, and I'm perfectly content with that.

"What's your name?" the escort asks me as I lightly push Delane down the steps and off the stage when I climb up onto it. I put on my brightest smile—not like some of the careers', with their menacing, sarcastic grins—but it really is a friendly smile. It'll draw people in. Make them wonder why I'm so happy, a girl in District Three, volunteering.

"Anna-Marie Schleben," I inform her and the audience.

The escort doesn't say anything in response; just skips away for the boys bowl and picks out a name. "Farrow Alliyatt!"

I recognize him from school. I think that Delane and Alvina have gushed over him from time to time, and as he looks up at me while he climbs the stage, he gives me a smile. It's like mine. Not intimidating or cynical, it's not even a weak one as if he may be scared. It's friendly. Reassuring.

Assuming he wants to be allies, I widen my smile while the escort tells us to shake hands.

We may be allies, but he will have to die.

**Farrow Alliyatt's POV**

I stare at the stage as the girl who volunteers takes to it. She's from school. Anna-Marie, is it? Something like that.

The girl whose name was pulled from the bowl, Delane, is yelling something at Anna-Marie, but she just walks past Delane to stand beside the escort and the Peacekeepers make Delane sit down in a seat. But this volunteer is smiling, I realize. _Smiling. _Is that her true, up-beat self, I wonder, or is she putting that on for the cameras? If it's the latter she's doing a pretty convincing job of it.

Lazar, one of my closest friends in our group whispers almost inaudibly, "You think they know each other?"

"Haven't you seen them around school together?" I inquire, also very quietly. "They're joined at the hip. Too bad neither of them would stand much of a chance, huh?"

Lazar chuckles into his fist, muffling the noise. The Peacekeepers are extra harsh on reaping days. Nobody wants to get caught talking, let alone laughing, during the ceremony. "I don't know, Farrow, they're both pretty hot. And it isn't like _anyone_ in this district stands a chance, so what's new about that?"

The escort is walking to the boys bowl now, but I choose that I'd rather carry on this conversation with Lazar, and win it, than listen to another corpse get reaped. "I could come out of that arena alive. Most people only have brains or brawns or beauty, not everything."

"Yeah. I guess. Like how your mom only has beau—"

"Farrow Alliyatt!"

All I think is how lucky Lazar is for that escort cutting him off. Everyone in our group knows, _knows_ that if you bring up my mother or anything about her you aren't about to get off scot-free with it. I'm going on to tell off Lazar for his remark, not sure if what I say will come out cruelly or meekly reasonable, when I remember why he had gotten interrupted. The escort called a name. But—not any name—_my_ name.

Every one of my friends stare at me as I push through them to get to the stage. I choose my identity almost immediately: approachable. I can't go into this alone. I'm going to need allies and this kind of character will help with that. Mainly since as of now, this Anna-Marie is my best bet for an alliance.

"Go on, shake hands," the escort demands of us.

We shake hands and her grin grows wider. She's doing the same thing as I am, the two of us knowing that we're going to end up being allies somehow, yet we're probably both planning ways to kill each other when the time is right.

After all, for me to win, she's going to have to die.

—

As I'm guided into the Justice Building away from Anna-Marie, I go over my strengths and weaknesses in my mind along with hers. I'm a leader. She seems more like the reserved type that will go along with things unless they go against what she strongly believes in. That's a good thing. And she's as attractive as I am, possibly more. Also a good thing. That means sponsors.

The Peacekeepers throw me into one of the nicest rooms I've seen in District Three: bright, painted a cheery yellow, and away from all of the pollution caused by the factories. I sit down in a mahogany chair while I wait for my first visitors. I'm strong from working in the factories, but I've never handled weapons in my life. Maybe I could learn to use a blade roughly during the training sessions, being a quick learner. But Anna-Marie… she was so happy on that stage volunteering like she knows she's already going to win. So she must have some experience with weapons to be so confident, right?

Before I can analyze the situation any more the doors open and my parents walk in. First my mother, running over to hug me. She doesn't have the greatest reputation around the district, hence my anger at Lazar's former comment. Prior to having me she was a prostitute, poor and working only for the money. It isn't like many people earn much of a living in District Three and people like my mother will do anything to stay alive. It's fortitude. And anyone who says otherwise, especially seventeen years later when she's over that phase of her life and owns a clothing store, is an idiot.

She got pregnant from my father one night, and to evade any punishment from the Peacekeepers the two of them got married. Supposedly, they wedded only because of me. Because of a mistake. But now I'm certain that they have grown to essentially love each other. One hundred percent certain, actually.

She pulls away to let my father embrace me, his more fragile frame in my larger one. When I was young my father got trapped in a factory while it had caught on fire from an overheated machine, and thankfully he got out, but not before he lost his right arm and left hand to the flames. This makes it difficult to hold him and for him to hold me, but we manage as we always do. My little brother Sam rushes up to me next and jumps and hugs me tighter than my parents did. He cries into the crook of my neck for a moment before I let him down so we can all talk.

"You'll do great," my mom says. There aren't tears in her eyes, but her voice shakes a little. "You're smart. You can do it."

"Yes," is all I can say.

"Yeah! And you'll come home. Right, Farrow?"

I smile the same smile I had on when I was in front of the entire district minutes ago. "Of course I'll come home." Ruffling Sam's dark hair, he sniffs and swipes a tear heatedly off his cheek. He's got my small amount of patience, that's for sure. I hope I'll be able to see him grow up and successfully surpass all of his own reapings, unlike his older brother. "Don't worry about it, alright? Just… cheer me on and I'll be okay."

He nods. My parents nod. We all get into a big group hug. They say they love me and good luck, I say it back. Sam waves over my father's shoulder as they all pile out of the room, the Peacekeepers shutting the doors behind them.

No later than three seconds after the doors shut they open again revealing my rally of friends. There's Lazar, who's wearing a smirk. Ruby, who has her lips pursed and blue eyes squinted like she's trying to conceal emotion. And Alejandro, who's just staring at the space on my forehead between my eyes. Lazar speaks first. "Well, look at it this way. Like you said before, you have a chance in that arena. Plus, like _I _said before, Anna-Marie is a pretty nice specimen." The last comment gets him a slap across the arm from Ruby.

"Dude, you'll be fine," Alejandro tells me. "Just make friends like you do here, kill all the others and then them. When you think about it, it can't be _that_ hard."

He's right, when I think about it it isn't. But once I see all of the tributes from the career districts I'm positive that my opinion will change. And his probably will too.

"I agree," Ruby steps up. "You better come home, Farrow. Otherwise I'll be stuck with _these_ two in school all the time. Don't make me go through that."

I laugh. She's teasing, but there's a bit of truth to her statement. "I won't put you through that, Rubes. Don't lose sleep over it."

"I'll try not to," she replies, beaming.

We all hug, they wish me luck like my parents and little brother had, and then they're all forced out by the Peacekeepers.

**A/N: ****Once we get to the train rides things will get more interesting. And I'll have a better feel for all of the characters by training and interviews and the Games. Writing twenty-four different personalities really takes a lot outta someone. ;)**

**On a different note, a lot of people still want to participate in this story, even if they were too late getting their tributes in. If you do, please PM me. I have to make chariot outfits, plan out the arena**** (which I am totally stuck on as for Gamemaker twists), etc. **

**So. Yeah. ****Review? (:**


	6. District Four Reaping

**Disclaimer: Do I even need to tell you guys that I don't own the Hunger Games or ****the characters at this point?**

**Peyton Bieda's POV**

I sit on Blaise's window seat—the window seat I've bugged him for years that I want—looking out at the grey street before me. Usually, this street isn't grey. Usually, there're little kids dancing and playing on the road with the sun shining down, and Blaise and I sit here and just take in the nice moment. But not only is today the reaping and nobody has much of a reason to dance in the street, but it's also raining and thundering and lightning out.

"Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?" I ask Blaise.

He laughs and jumps off the bed to come sit by me. I scoot over to make room. "My favorite type of weather. Especially great for listening to your father recite long and boring speeches in."

Blaise's father is the mayor. Their house is really extravagant; three-stories tall above the ground in the grandest area of the district, with a fantastic view of the houses beside it and beyond that, the ocean. Although today the ocean seems unsettled. Choppy waves, dark clouds, the whole storm deal.

We sit in silence for a few moments on that window seat, the two of us looking at the nothingness on the road when Blaise, abruptly becoming serious, goes, "Are you worried about today, Peyton?"

I shrug and pull my knees underneath me into a more comfortable position in the limited space I have. "I don't know. Maybe. I guess. Are you?"

"You know you have more to worry about than me."

Rolling my eyes for show, I now swing my legs off the cushions so the soles of my feet are skimming the ground. Years ago, my parents had been Gamemakers for the Games. They plotted tributes deaths in detail and arranged their annihilations. Ultimately, they left the Capitol because of the realization of what they were doing with innocent children's lives, by boat, and they ended up in District Four. Then they had me and lived the basic family life, but they've always worried that one day the Capitol will catch up with them for backing out and, as a form of revenge, send me into the arena. It's always seemed so dramatic and improbable that it hasn't ever hit me as reality.

Blaise stares at me, he's obviously worried just as much as my parents, and I shrug again. "I'm not anxious about it," I lie easily. "It isn't like I haven't trained, right? I've still got a chance of surviving."

"Sure you do. I just mean…" His words drag on, and I quickly force myself to look away. I know that Blaise likes me, has liked me, for years now. But I've forbidden myself to like him back and for him to openly discuss the matter, just because of the very reason I state I'm not worried about. What if I do get thrown into the arena? What if I don't come out? It'll just hurt the two of us more.

"Blaise, I gotta go get ready for the reaping." I change the subject all but smoothly. "I'll see you there?"

He only nods and turns back to the dreary street.

I slip into my raincoat and run home, trying not to step in any puddles and dirty my shoes. Once I get there, I take to the stairs two at a time and turn on the shower—though my family is lucky to have a shower in the district it's still always nearly ice cold water—, promptly pulling a bit of soap through my hair and over my body, and then stepping out to get dressed.

My chiffon dress is plum-colored with black lace peeking out at the neckline. My shoes are sparkly and silver, and my charm bracelet dangles off my wrist slightly catching the light. Each charm represents an important person in my life. The shield represents my father. The dove is my mother. And the heart is Blaise—only because he's been my best friend since I can remember. It means nothing more.

Despite the fact that it's the most dreaded day of the year I find myself admiring the way I look. I like how my golden brown hair falls past my shoulders and the way my blue eyes look bold against my lighter, ivory skin tone. And how muscular and slim my legs are. Immediately after thinking these things I wish to take them back. I should be thinking about the reaping. Worrying about someone I care about getting reaped. Worrying about _myself_ getting reaped.

My yellow rain coat looks absolutely ridiculous with the purple dress, and I find myself laughing of the absurdity of it all. Oh well, I think. That's not the most nerve-racking part about today.

Both of my parents walk me to the square where I kiss them and take off to find my friends. I can't seem to find Blaise in the throng of people, but I do find two of my best girl friends, Aleah and Emily. We discuss the reaping briefly together. There aren't as many careers wanting to volunteer for this Quell as there were for the last. Nobody in our district looks forward to the Games anymore—I mean, we may train for them to have a decent chance, but we aren't the same as districts One and Two. They always have volunteers. But if you get chosen here, that's about it for you.

Blaise's father, a tall and awfully skinny man regardless of the wealth he must have, walks up to the stage and begins to recite the Treaty of Treason. I lean back in my seat with my arms over my chest trying to think of something to say to Aleah and Emily, but really just searching through the crowd for Blaise. If he were here I'd comment how one day he'll grow to have a moustache just like his father, and he'd wince in response, and then we'd laugh a little. Without him to talk to it's really very boring.

"I'd like to introduce you all to your escort, Mimi Liper!" Finally stalking off the stage, the small perky escort that can't be taller than four feet takes our mayor's place. She giggles into the microphone. "Are you all ready to find out your lucky female tribute for the Games?"

The rain is her only reply. I pull my coat around me tighter to keep from shivering and watch as a large bolt of lightning streaks through the sky, followed by a rumble of thunder. That's not a great omen.

She prances over to the big glass bowl and reaches her hand in, eagerly pulling back with about five pieces of paper. "Oops," she giggles again, and puts them all back and goes in for a second time, coming back out with just one this time. "And she is Peyton Bieda!"

_Fixed_ is the first word that enters my mind. This is fixed. The reaping is rigged. The Capitol has finally decided that they want revenge on my parents, and this is the way that they're going to go about it.

Aleah and Emily cry out in response, but neither of them volunteer for me. Which is fine. If I'm being honest then I probably wouldn't volunteer for whichever of the them either and I wouldn't expect more in return.

As I walk to the stage, I at last catch Blaise's eye in the crowd. He looks up at me, almost a _told you so_ look, only a bit more caring and considerate, across his features.

He must be as afraid as I am.

**Dillon LeDron's POV**

The day of the reaping I wake up to my sister's coughing. I try and fall back asleep, but the coughing just gets extremely worse. The Peacekeepers came with a Capitol doctor yesterday. At first I thought that they might be willing to heal her or tell us what she has, but instead the doctor diagnosed her too sick to go to the reaping—especially in the pouring rain—and then left.

I pull on a sweater, shorts and a hat—even if I wanted to dress up for today it isn't as if we can currently afford a tux—and go into my sister's room. Her brown hair is sprawled around her pillow and she's coughing into her upper arm, her head buried deep beneath the quilt. Sitting beside her I rub her back, trying to get her to stop, but it doesn't work. She doesn't even turn to look at me. But I stay there anyways until my father comes in.

"How is she?" he asks, his hair, the same blond as mine, is disheveled from just waking up.

He's greeted by more coughs. That's enough of an answer for him. Whatever my sister has it involves a few symptoms: coughing, sometimes coughing up blood, puking, she loses her appetite and constantly has a sore stomach. We've no idea what it is, and we're practically defenseless as to helping her. Sighing, he turns to leave the room and probably go back to sleep for a little more, but I stop him by saying, "I'm volunteering, Dad. Today."

For a moment he looks at me like he doesn't believe what I just said. Like it doesn't register in his mind. I don't think he's planning on saying anything at all, but then he goes, "Dillon."

That's all he says. My name. One word. Yet it has an adequate amount of impact on me—so much so that I begin to rethink volunteering. But my thinking process is cut off by Star's gagging and I remember why I'm doing it. She will die without the right medicine. She will die without a doctor. She's already dying, and I don't think she has much time left if they believe that she isn't suitable for the reaping.

"You know I have to," I tell my father, tucking the quilt that has unwound itself around Star's fragile figure back under her. "And you know that I have the skill. But I want to make sure that it's—that it's all right with you."

"If I say no, you're still going to volunteer. Why do you ask?"

I think about that. "I don't want to leave with you angry at me."

Silence once again overtakes the two of us. I glance out the tiny dust-coated window in Star's room and to the ocean. It's not as peaceful as it normally looks. There are higher, fiercer waves crashing down onto the sand. Sort of like a warning. Sort of like they're telling me something. I can't decide if that's to stay and face the storm, and maybe things will get better, or go off and attempt to outrun everything and solve it myself.

"Join the career pack and get your hands on a sword," my father says rapidly, and I snap away from the window and back to him. "You're good with swords. Make it far. But don't let it get down to just your pack. You will stand no chance. Kill people off along the way. I'll be routing for you, son."

Disregarding Star's sickness for a moment, I stand up and embrace my father. His life has been as rough as mine. My mother left him when I was a child for a richer man, and ever since then we've lived on the edge of District Four on an overhang that looks over the ocean. He harpoons as a job but it brings in barely any money, leaving me to fish and take the odd job around the district. I manage to train too, though, just in case. My father used to be a complete master with the sword and he's coached me for years on the proper techniques and strategies surrounding it.

"I don't want to lose both of you," he tells me. "Come home."

I only say, "I'll try. Star needs it," because I don't want to promise more than I can handle.

—

At the reaping, I sit alone. I go to school every other day now that I'm old enough to go fishing and work, so I don't exactly meet a lot of friends. Not to mention that the kids that I _do_ get up to meeting… well, you can't exactly consider them friends. Or acquaintances. Or anything near those categories.

Everyone around me is in suits and fancy dresses. Polished shoes, their hair done up. I tip my hat further over my eyes so nobody will see me.

"Panem rose…"

The Treaty of Treason. Every year. On this one day. It gets quite old after a while. Actually, after the first time is when it starts to get old.

I'll be up on that stage in a few moments, I realize. I'll be _right there._ Risking my life for my district and my sister. If I go out to that arena and win it all then we get everything, and my sister gets better and neither my dad nor I will be obligated to work anymore. But if I die, we lose everything. Not just me, but also my father. I'm sure he knows that I have to do this, and if I don't then we'd live with the guilt of what could've happened later on whenever my sister died. But if I die he'll also lose me. Eventually my sister. And the money I bring in from work.

I don't want my dad going through that, which is why I have to get home.

"Peyton Bieda!" the escort calls for the girls. One of the more popular girls from school walk up to the stage. She doesn't look nervous at all. She seems confident, except the way her eyes are fixed on one part of the crowd and nowhere else.

The short escort skips over to the boys bowl. She runs her hand through the slips of paper for a long time, and I feel everyone beginning to grow anxious, wishing that she would just get on with it, when she at last takes out a slip. "Dean—"

There's no point in prolonging this anymore than I have to. May as well get it over with now.

"I volunteer!"

—

I refuse visitors. My father and I already had a goodbye suitable for me and I'd rather him just get back to Star faster. I won't have any friends from school visiting me either, and pretending I do would be just stupid.

I remember the girl that walked up to the stage. Peyton. Will we be allies, I wonder? She seems like a career. And I'm getting into the career pack if it's the last thing that I do.

I'll win, if these Games are the last thing I do.

Which they might be.

**A/N: Yes. We are done reapings. –****Fist pump- I'll be doing train rides for districts Five, Six, Seven and Eight. **

**Sorry if this chapter wasn't**** that great and/or a filler chapter. I'm still trying to get used to the characters and I wanted to get it up, even if it meant writing half of it at midnight. **

**Also, I've mapped out the arena. Thank you to ForeverAdrian and Realityshowfan for helping me out with a couple ideas and mutts. (: **

**It's gonna be one badass arena, guys. ;)**


	7. District Five Train Ride

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games. Or the characters. A-duh.**

**Nan Weatherall's POV**

The first thing I want to do once I get on the train is take a nap. Honestly, I need one after the eventful morning I've had. My district partner volunteered. _He's a volunteer. _May as well call him a career now and give up allying with him already.

I toss and turn around the fluffy white comforter that's splayed across the bed in the room they've given me. I miss my parents. And my little sister Elisabeth. And my best friend Calculus. And it hasn't even been a full hour that I've been separated from them all. When I walked up to that stage, I didn't let any of that show, though. All I did was smile brightly and shake the escort's hand, and then Summer's, and then said goodbye to my family and friends before the Peacekeepers guided Summer and I to the train.

Longing for sleep, to escape to any nightmare but this one, I flip onto my back and shut my eyes. My heart beats too fast. So I try the counting sheep technique. _One, two, three, four… _

Nope. Nothing.

I lay there thinking about what I'm leaving behind for who knows how long before the escort, a guy named Ginger or something, comes to get me for an early dinner or late lunch. I think about putting on that smile I had on the stage, but there aren't cameras here. There isn't anyone I'm trying to fool. So I keep a neutral expression on my face as Ginger leads me out of my room, into a long hallway, and then through a shiny mahogany door and into the dining cart.

Summer is already sitting around the table, along with the two mentors Lily Sanders and Hart Kace. I don't want to sit by Summer if he isn't going to be my ally, so I take the open seat between the two mentors while Ginger sits between Hart and Summer. Servants bring us a green soup and as soon as I taste it I can't help but wolf the whole bowl down. It's delicious.

"Nan," Hart says, nodding in my direction. "Summer." He nods in Summer's. "You two feeling good?"

Neither of us says anything. I don't know what Summer's thinking, but I'm waiting for him to reply, too busy with the soup to care much. What kind of a question is that, anyways? How are we feeling? How does he _think_ I'm feeling? I'm no career—I'm a short thirteen year old. He out of all people must know I stand no chance whatsoever.

"Good," Summer finally replies. I glance over to him to see if he's being sarcastic, but he isn't. He's totally serious. He is _good_ right now.

I envy him.

"What about you, Nan?" Hart asks me half-heartedly while snapping his fingers at one of the servants, ordering them to bring him a cup of hot chocolate. What hot chocolate is, I have no idea, but apparently it's more important than my response.

"Well," I say lightly. "Considering I'm about to die, not too great. But thank you for caring _so_ much, Hart, I can tell you've got compassion. I'm glad that my mentor knows useful questions that will certainly keep me alive."

"Don't look at it like that," Hart tells me, ignoring the fact that I've insulted him. "You still have a few days left!"

Lily slaps him across the shoulder and gives him a bit of a glare. "Hart!"

"Well, it's an opinion, Lillian. Would you like to share your own? Do you have any, for that matter?"

"Yes. And that is that you are a jerk with no heart."

He taps his chin, mocking deep thought. He seems like such a career to me; I'm not sure how he's from District Five. "Ironic, isn't it? My name is Hart, and I have no heart?"

Lily stands up from her chair, almost knocking over a servant that was walking behind her with plates of roasted chickens. After apologizing, she spins around and snaps two of the plates off the tray the red-headed servant is carrying, saying, "Nan, let's go eat in the other room. I've had enough of him."

With Ginger, Summer and Hart all staring at me, I cautiously slide my chair back, it scraping against the aluminum flooring, and slowly follow Lily out of the dining cart and into a room with a shiny leather couch, a coffee table in front of it, and a huge television hanging on the wall opposite of the couch. She sits and pats the spot beside her. "Sit."

I obey. The leather squeaks as I do. Lily ties up her dark hair into a messy bun above her head like she's getting ready to go into battle, and stares intently at me. "You're going to be a fighter, kind of like myself, aren't you?"

I shrug. Lily won the Games when she was fifteen. She hid in trees, picked the careers off with a bow and arrow, and won the final battle against the male from District One. She's pretty popular in our district. The most famous victor from District Five for years now. But comparing me to her would be futile.

She passes me a plate of chicken and a fork. I don't want to seem like a starving kid from Twelve, so I take tiny bites off the skin as she says, "What can you do? Tell me honestly. Don't doubt yourself."

Nibbling on the bird, which tastes a little like garlic and lemon and is really tasty, I go, "I'm not afraid of people. Or to stand up to them. I'm smart, and good at making friends. Those count, right?"

"Everything counts in this kind of game. Trust me," she tells me while putting her fork down on the glass coffee table and using her hands to tear apart the chicken. "So you're not scared of people. That's good. That'll come in handy. Do you want allies or do you want to go in alone?"

I consider that. But it doesn't take long for the answer to come. I don't know if I could stand it being alone for months at a time in a foreign place. "I want at least one ally. And no friends. Because they'll have to die, and I don't want to see any of my friends die."

"You _are_ smart," she mumbles from the excess chicken in her mouth. "Can you use weapons?"

At that, I hesitate. It isn't like there was ever a reason in District Five for me to decapitate someone with a sword or chuck a knife from a distance at someone's heart. Maybe I could master a smaller weapon, but even that's counting the chickens before the eggs hatch. If anything I'll have to rely on my brains and willpower. So I shake my head to reply to Lily's question.

"Well, that's fine. We'll figure something out, yeah?" For a minute she stares at me, inspecting everything from my hair to my nails, while a smile gradually builds on her bright red lips. "Nan, you're going to do great. I can tell already."

Mentors aren't paid like escorts are to be good at their job. For all they care their tributes can go off to their deaths and die while they sit back and enjoy a life of luxury. But instead of doing all that, Lily really seems to want to help me. And, let's face it I'll need her help. A lot.

I smile back. "Shall we watch the reapings to strategize?"

**Summer Whitesell's POV**

Nan and Lily leave the room, Lily stomping out and Nan following close behind her with her chin tucked into her chest self-consciously. The door of the dining cart slides with a _click_ as the sound of their footsteps disappears down the hallway. Once they're completely gone, Hart turns to me.

"A volunteer, eh?" he asks, taking a sip out of a mug that one of the workers brought. The tone of his voice suggests that he's probably excited about this but is trying to conceal it. I play with my district token—waiting for him to say more—which is a leather cuff strapped around my wrist that my brother wore into his own Games. Hart is oblivious to my oblivion when he talks a small bit more about how he won, bragging at all the right parts and probably leaving out the details that would descend his status. But it doesn't sound like much of a story to me. Nothing like Lily's. He just hung around the career pack, eventually killing them off at night when everyone was asleep.

"Can you kill?" he inquires with another gulp from the mug.

"I will kill," I tell him. "To win."

Hart stops speaking to look at me. Ginger starts blabbering about something to do with how I'll just adore the Capitol, but Hart holds up a hand in Ginger's direction and he immediately shuts up. It's kind of scary the effect he has on the people around here. Even the workers look afraid when he comes into a room. But I think it's more because of him being a bully, rather than anything else.

"I don't think you know what you got yourself into, kid," he says to me. I feel the urge to inform him I'm not a kid and I would rather not be called one, but I suppress it. It isn't the time for that. "These are the Hunger Games. People die. Are you ready to die?" He jerks his head at the door that Lily and the petite Nan recently stalked out of. "Are you ready to see _her_ die? To kill her? She looks innocent but if she gets the opportunity to murder you, I highly doubt she'll resist it."

I toy with my leather cuff some more, reminded of Vance and Eric. Reminded of my father. Of him pushing all of us to train for the Games, saying how Five needed a new victor and it was going to be one of us. One of his sons. Well, it wasn't Vance or Eric. Optimistically, it _will_ be me. I'm going to avenge my brothers' deaths. Prove to my father that while he may have a victor of a son, he lost two in the process.

"I will kill," I repeat to Hart, this time it comes out through my teeth, "to win."

"You'll kill that little girl in the next room?" he questions insistently. "No problem?"

I recall my brothers. The way they died, live on TV. The way my father growled not in sadness or anger but in frustration as their cannons went off through the television. The way, after Vance died, he looked at me and said, "Well, you're my last hope, Summer," like if I didn't come back from the arena nobody would really care because they didn't expect much from me in the first place.

That's when I promised myself I'd show him. I'd show him I could win, but it wouldn't be for him. It would be for Vance and Eric. For me. _Not_ for my father.

"I told you that I will kill to win," I say firmly. "And I don't lie."

Hart continues to stare curiously like he's trying to figure me out, while Ginger nervously eats away at his chicken as if he's pretending not to notice the conversation, when really he just wants to hear what Hart's response will be.

"Well then," Hart says. "Welcome to the Capitol, kid."

—

We still have a couple hours after the dinner/luncheon thing until we reach our destination—where we'll be prepped for the chariot rides and shown off in all our glory for the rest of Panem to gawk at—so I sit in the room they've given me. Outside, I hear the train squealing over the train tracks. Through the thin wall, I hear Nan and Lily talking. Since I have nothing better to do I press my ear against the divider so I can listen.

"You're fast," a deeper, more mature voice says, and it must be Lily. "But so are a lot of people. Don't go for the Cornucopia. Grab the nearest item and take a route that's to your left or right, not behind you because that'll give someone the chance to kill you when you're not looking."

Nan's higher voice rings through the wall next, reminding me vaguely of my little sister Talluha's. She's my last surviving sibling. She's the person I care about most, along with my girlfriend. But that's a different story for a different time.

"What if I can't find food or water?" Nan asks. "I'll die."

"On the first day you'll have sponsors. I'll make sure of it," Lily informs her. I start to feel a bit jealous at that note. Hart never promised me any sponsors. "If you need more, you can track back to the Cornucopia at night and grab supplies. You can outrun _one_ career, the one that'll be keeping watch. But not all of them."

This is useless. This information means nothing to me. I push away from the pale green wall and into my own personal bathroom, which is complete with a bathtub, a separate shower with a whole console of buttons, and a toilet and sink. I undress, step into the shower and turn a dial. Icy water sprays at me from every angle. I turn the dial again, but it becomes boiling hot. I press a couple of the buttons hoping to get the temperature back to normal, but some kind of sweet-smelling stuff sprays into my open eye and it burns instantaneously. Giving up, I move out of the shower and dry off with a towel while sniffing myself. I smell like roses and peppermint. And my skin is bright red from the heat.

Someone pounds on my door. I rush out of the bathroom, still in only the towel, to open it. Hart stands leaning against my doorframe with a cigar poking out the side of his mouth. He smirks. "C'mon, pretty boy. Get dressed. We're going to watch a recap of the reapings."

I spin on my heels to go back into my room and get some clothes on about to slam the door behind me, but something gets in the way and the door swings back open. Hart's foot is what was in the way.

He doesn't wipe the sarcastic grin off his face as he flips a strand of black hair out of his eyes. "Summer, just some sage wisdom from your heroic and handsome mentor? You may want to put on some cologne so you don't smell like fucking unicorns and rainbows. You're a killer now. And don't you forget it."

**A/N: Thank you to Claratrix LeChatham for helping me with more mutts for the arena. Thanks Clara. (: **

**Woo! We're almost halfway to training. Just to let you all know, it's after the chariot rides that the tributes receive the alterations.**

**Oh, and lately the chapters haven't been showing up. It'll say something like, **_**This story has no chapters. **_**I've emailed the support email listed on the main page about it, so hopefully they'll fix whatever's going on soon, but the best solution I can offer if this happens as of now is to just wait an hour or so and come back to it. (:**

**Review? **


	8. District Six Train Ride

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. Or these characters. **

**Levve (Lay-vay) Morton's POV**

"The tension in here is so thick you could cut it with a knife!" Xaina giggles looking around the sitting area, possibly searching for another person who will laugh at this. But nobody does, and she turns back to inspecting her cuticles.

I scratch at the scar on the back of my hand. I will probably be dying soon. As I take a look at Mick in my side vision, it only confirms my former thought. He's staring at the two annoyingly perky Capitol reporters on the television with a look that tells me he's most likely consciously some place other than here, probably planning the most painful way to kill me. Excellent. I'm not even in the arena thus far and my own district partner wants to stab me.

But I can't blame him. After all, the only reason he is in this tension-filled room with me, Xaina, and the two mentors Cami and Hayden is because he wants revenge.

Once again, just _excellent. _

Having nothing better to do than listen to the thick Capitol accents the reporters are pushing I think back to today's events. I got reaped. Mick volunteered, _because_ I got reaped. My parents were practically my only visitors, and it wasn't a very heart-touching scene. A couple good lucks were passed around, a few buoyant _you-can-do-it's_, and a hug here or there and that was that. The Peacekeepers dragged them out of the room and then me to the train.

We haven't really had a strong relationship, ever, me and my parents. I've never known what it is and sometimes I wish I had before _this_, but it's just... we don't really love each other. I'm sure we do, I guess. A little. But it isn't a close-knit family arrangement that some other people have. And if I'm being honest, every time I see some of the poorer families in the district, the ones that lean on each other and do everything for everyone in it, I get a tiny pang of jealousy. I'm well-off. I've had everything I've ever needed in my life. And somehow, they still have more than me.

The two Capitol reporters go on talking about the hype for this year's Games, saying how it's going to be simply the _best ever_ and anyone who misses them is just going to regret it. I bet. I bet they'll all love watching my blood leak out of me, in the hands of Mick. But it doesn't matter. Because when he volunteered and glared at me as he walked up to the stage I knew, I _knew_, that although he wants me dead and gone I will not, under any circumstances, hurt him.

"Is anyone else hungry?" Cami asks lightly. The only person who bothers replying is Hayden, who says, "I am," and that's only because they're married—apparently they had been best friends before the Games, and when they both became victors they hit it off or whatever—and only want to escape the room. Cami stands up, followed by Hayden, and the two walk out to the kitchen to get food.

Once they're gone Xaina laughs nervously, sitting on the animal-print couch between Mick and me, and I roll my eyes. "So do you two know each other?" she asks.

I open my mouth but Mick cuts me off. "No," he says. "Not whatsoever."

Okay. That's fine. I can understand that.

Sinking back into the soft couch, hoping that maybe I can sink all the way in and disappear from the world, I watch the beginnings of the recaps of the reapings. District One is the regular stuff with two confident careers. Two also has two volunteers, but the girl looks a little intimidated by the bulldozer of a guy. Three's tributes look like competition. A volunteer girl and the boy observant, sort of like me. As Four comes up Cami and Hayden enter the room, commenting on how they're typical career pack material. Five has a strong boy and a tiny girl. Now Six, there's us. Me, walking up to the stage with little baby steps and looking apprehensively at the crowd. And Mick. Immediately volunteering. Glaring not at the cameras, or at the rest of the district, but at _me. _

"A lot of strong ones this year," Hayden says. "But you two will beat 'em!"

"Yes! Yay! Go District Six!" Xaina starts clapping her hands, but when she sees that still nobody is very enthusiastic about it, she stops.

The reapings wrap up with the two from Twelve, female and male looking well-fed and as decent as my family, perhaps more, and Mick is the first to leave the room. "What's your rush?" Xaina yells after him, hopping up from the couch and turning her bright pink eyes on me and the two mentors. "I'm happy that _someone's_ enjoying the train," she says before stomping out the door.

I stay seated for a moment, but then quietly stand up and start to leave this compartment of the vehicle. I don't know Hayden or Cami. And I'm sure that they'd rather be left alone than have to talk to me about Mick or to Mick about me. _I'd_ rather be alone than talk about that.

"Why does he hate you, Levve?" questions Hayden suddenly.

I stop in the doorway, scratching at the back of my hand. Why does he hate me? There's a reason. There's a pretty dominant reason that I hate myself for, that my and Mick's families got torn apart for. It ruined my life. It ruined his life. It ruined everything.

But instead of telling Hayden that I killed Mick's sister I keep on walking.

—

I think about taking a shower, but the arrangement of buttons throw me off and I decide to stick with a simple bath. I run the water, feeling it rush over my fingertips until the temperature turns lukewarm, and then undress and step in. Oh, it's relaxing. I haven't felt this relaxed in ages. Weird that as I get shipped off to my death I have one of the most tranquil moments I've had since the incident.

Speaking of which, was an accident of course. I didn't want to hurt her, let alone kill her. Millya was only sixteen and her family loved her. I saw her in the hallways at school surrounded by friends. I saw her and Mick having the occasional chat at lunch. They were pretty close. So I can't fault him for hating me as he does.

The silence in the bathroom is almost unbearable. I want someone to be here for me. I need to be in someone else's company. But—who is there to be here? Mick? Cami? Hayden? Xaina? The worst part about that is how I'd rather talk to Xaina than any of the other choices I've listed off, as I'd have to explain everything to Cami or Hayden and Mick... well, that shouldn't have even been an option in the first place.

If I hadn't gone to the library to study that one day, how would things be different? Mick surely wouldn't be my district partner. Maybe someone I could actually talk to and ally with would be in his place. Maybe that would be better. I would stand more of a chance.

But that isn't reality, and I have to get back to it. I get out of the bath, which might be the last moment of peacefulness I receive, and step onto the drying pad beside the shower, it lifting up the dirty blonde hair on my head and swirling it around my face. I'll do what it takes to win. I'll use all those days of studying to my advantage. I might kill, but I'll make a final decision about how I feel about a thing like murder—which as of now isn't so great—when the time comes.

But no matter what, I will not hurt Mick.

**Mick Revelain's POV**

Maybe my lust for revenge on Levve is too strong. I could be going _too_ far, wishing that I had that knife I use for whittling in my hands while we're all in sitting in this room watching the recaps of the reapings, but she brought it upon herself. She killed my sister while driving that car her rich father bought for her. I loved my family. I loved my sister. And now my family doesn't love like they did before. And that's because of her.

I don't hate people for no reason. And her, I hate.

The recaps wrap up and I instantly shove my way from the room. I'm going to make the best use of everything here. The mentors, the old Games tapes that follow every past victor which I saw in the sitting room earlier. I volunteered so I can kill Levve and avenge what she did to my sister, and that is what I will do.

I hear Levve go to her room, but I stay in the dining cart and order a servant to bring me an apple. I sit there at the glass table, thinking. How will I do it? Will I make it slow for her, agonizing for her family? Will I make it quick? Even though it wasn't for my sister?

My thoughts are interrupted by Hayden. He takes a seat by me around the table, and we stare at each other for a second awkwardly until he says, "So what can you do?"

Biting into my apple, I tell him, "I carve things. With a knife." I think that it is a good enough explanation for the indistinct question he asked, but he goes on staring at me like he's expecting to hear more. So I go, "And I'm good at it."

He nods thoughtfully. "Is that all?

"Pretty much."

More staring. I eat my apple crunchily in the dead silence of the kitchen, almost yearning for the maddening escort Xaina to enter the room and start ranting about how we ought to win so she can get moved to a better district next year. But not even the other mentor Cami enters. It's just me and Hayden. In a horrible quiet.

"What's up with you and Levve?"

I shrug and chew my fruit.

"Look." Hayden sighs. "If you wanna survive, if you want a strategy, then you have to tell me what's going on. Who do I have to spread the gossip to, anyways? Xaina?"

He _is_ my mentor. And basically my lifeline. "Alright. Fine. She did something to my family," I say vaguely, praying that he won't ask for more information about my parents—about how my dad drinks away the pain of the loss of my sister or how I pretend not to hear my mother crying at night when I'm trying to go to sleep. Those memories, while I'm here, are long forgotten. Now I have one objective. One memory, which will drive me throughout it all.

"And you hate her?" Hayden asks to verify my statement. I shrug again and he continues, "Meaning that being allies would be out of the question?"

"Meaning all allies are out of the question."

The look on his face seems as if what I've said is horrific. But if I have one objective, which is to kill Levve, then what is the point of making allies with anybody? Besides, they'd have to die in the end as well for me to win. And I might have to be the one to kill them. But Hayden, despite the disbelieving look, goes, "Okay. If you're not a complete career, why'd you volunteer? Just because—"

I think it may be the way I feel my eyebrows narrow loosely and how my jaw clenches roughly at the thought of Levve that stops him in his tracks. The hate on my face must be evident—it even feels evident—and if he hadn't figured it out before then now he must've. He knows why I'm here. I didn't get chosen. I _chose_ to be here. Out of my own freewill.

"Oh. Okay." Hayden swallows and itches at a spot on his arm. I take another bite into the glossy red apple. It's awkward once again, and I can't help but feel that it will probably be this way every time we attempt at conversation. "We'll be getting to the Capitol soon. Let me tell you a couple things about the Capitol..."

—

After my strategy conversation with Hayden—which didn't get past kill to win no matter what and let the stylists do whatever they want to me without complaint, as they control my image towards the Capitol and, further more, future sponsors—I go into my room to take a nap. According to Hayden, the opening ceremonies can really wear a person out. And I want to be full of energy in this. For my sister.

The bed is comfortable—but this is a technicality. It's not really bringing me one step closer to avenging my sister. It's just there. And because of this thought, because I know that this isn't _really_ helping me, I just lay there unable to fall asleep. When I saw Levve around the district, I never really thought that this chance would come to me. But it has. And I'm here. And I feel wonderful about it.

Although I never thought I would be volunteering for the Games, I know how to use a knife from whittling with objects since Millya died. It always felt nice having a dangerous weapon in my hands, which I was entirely capable of using. Not only that but it kept my mind away from Millya and my withdrawn parents.

I do other tasks, too. Like pulling every tiny weed out of my mother's dying garden when I'm not at school or doing school work. And cleaning old boxes out of the attic. And even cooking. Anything that physically and mentally drains me is perfectly acceptable, because those kinds of things keep my thoughts somewhere else just as well.

Millya died because of Levve, I think. And I'm risking my own life to avenge that. I could—probably will—die during the process. But I'll make sure that before I do, so does Levve.

**A/N: I'm going on vacation for eight days exactly a week from today. I'll still be writing while I'm gone, probably late at night, but I don't know how much internet access I'll be able to get.**

**It may affect how quickly I update now, but it's only about a week and I'm sure I'll get internet access at one point to post a chapter or two. **

**Thanks to everyone who has been reviewing and following this story so far! Little things like that make my day. (:**


	9. District Seven Train Ride

**Disclaimer: Yet again, I do own neither the Hunger Games nor these characters. I don't think I ever will, either. Tough luck.**

**Natalia DeGuzman's POV**

All of the people around me talk. The two mentors—the snobby-looking Cherry and the older, wiser Kurt—, my district partner Trey who seems to be full of energy and charisma, and the escort whose weird Capitol name has already escaped me. They talk, but I just watch silently. Nothing has set in yet.

I think I vaguely hear someone say my name, but I'm too immersed in my own thoughts to even bat an eyelash. It's ironic, really. Because once my father dies, and my family gains a little freedom and independence—which, just to let you know, is the best feeling in the entire world—everything crashes down again when I get shipped away to my death. And there I was, thinking my life was finally headed in the right direction.

Oh well. At least my mother and sister still have their freewill. At least they can live a nice life, in spite of me.

"Natalia!"

The sharp tone of voice breaks me from my thoughts. I find the mentor Cherry staring at me while impatiently tapping her fingers against the polished wooden table. Swallowing, ignoring everybody's intent glimpses in my direction, I push the biggest—yet fakest—smile I've ever had on my face. May as well be plastic. But that doesn't matter. It's there, isn't it?

"Sorry," I say. "What were you saying?"

"First of all," Cherry starts, placing her fork down on her own plate. My initial thought is that _this cannot be good. _"You haven't spoken once since setting foot on this train."

That isn't entirely true. I had spoken to the Peacekeepers, telling them not to grip my arm so harshly, when they dragged me away from my mother and sister in the Justice Building and to the vehicle. It wasn't as if I had any where to run. But apparently in Cherry's world, this doesn't count as speaking.

"Second of all, you haven't touched your food."

I look down to find a plate full of wide varieties of vegetables and fruits placed in front of me, and I swallow, gingerly picking up a fork and sticking it into a slice of green apple. Woops. When had that gotten here?

"Thirdly, you don't seem to be taking much of an interest in any of this."

The temptation to roll my eyes subsides with the first bite of the green apple. It's awfully sour. But I force myself to suck it up and gulp it down, fixing my eyes back on Cherry while saying, "I'm just not much of a talkative person."

"I'd expect you to talk when your life is on the line." She pushes her fluorescent red hair back behind her shoulders, straightens her posture, and goes on. "_Trey _is."

Trey starts to speak, shooting an apologetic look in my direction, but Cherry cuts him off saying that no more words are necessary, and stands up from her chair. She gestures for me to do the same, and I comply hesitantly, something in the way she flicks her wrist striking a nerve within me. But I shove that thought aside and follow her—with my plate of fruit and vegetables in my hands—out of the dining cart, down a glossy hallway with windows on the roof giving a vivid view of the azure sky, and into the room the Peacekeepers dubbed 'my own room' before throwing me in earlier.

There are two dark green chairs in the corner of the room, and that's where Cherry goes, sitting down on the one closest to the window. I follow her into the room, shutting the door behind myself and placing my food on the top of a wooden dresser, but then I stay frozen in that spot.

"Sit," she demands, motioning to the seat beside her.

But there it is. That nerve again. Something inside of me tells me that this isn't right—her ordering me around so much—because it reminds me heavily of my father. And I promised myself when we got the news about how a tree destroyed him while he was working and he didn't make it through the injuries that I would never, ever, succumb to the weak feelings he forced upon me. The way he made me feel like I was crap, and he was superior in every way, and had every right to tell me to be obedient and—when I wasn't—there would be severe consequences.

"I'm okay standing," I tell Cherry, leaning against the wooden dresser I put my plate on top of.

She doesn't look satisfied. I'm not sure if it's because she has to mentor me in the first place or because I don't want to follow her command and sit until she goes, "I'd like you to sit, Natalia."

"Well," I say tightly. "I'd like to stand."

Her eyes lock on mine for a moment, as if she is astonished I would dare to defy her in any way. But I defensively cross my arms over my chest and wait for her to go on. If someone starts a fight, I'll be the one to finish it.

"I hope this pattern doesn't continue," she tells me. "At any rate, what do you think you can do that'll keep you alive in that arena?"

"I'm friendly." It may be a fake friendly that I put up most of the time, which chiefly covers what I'm really feeling and works fantastically as a shield against the rest of the world, along with helping me fly just below the radar in situations. But it really _is_ there, if you look hard enough. I see Cherry looking incredulously at my statement, so I add quickly, "When I want to be."

"Is that all?" She's noticeably unimpressed by my ability to be friendly.

"I'm tough," I say, because I can't exactly think of a lot. "I won't run away from a fight. I'll confront it."

She picks at some of the dark black paint on her fingernails, almost dubiously. "That's not always a strength, Natalia. You may be strong, you may be tough, but when it comes down to you against the careers of the competition you have to learn when to back down."

"If they challenge me," I say, and disregard the way my jaw clenches involuntarily and nails dig into the palms of my hands. "I would rather go down fighting with dignity than leave without my pride. And I'm stealthy. I trust no one."

While she continues to chip off her nail paint I feel my teeth grinding together. She reminds me of my father. And I hate that. My father took everything from me, took everything from my family—my mother and my young sister Jetta. He abused us, used us, and growing up was never as easy for me as it was for the other kids at my school. But that's when I put that shield up. I don't let people see me, or what I'm feeling. Under most circumstances. There are a few exceptions to that rule, and people trying to control me is most definitely one of them.

"Don't be too proud. It could be your downfall."

"I'm not proud," I argue, but the mentor interrupts me with a snort and another toss of her bright flaming hair, while arising from her seat.

"If you want to talk civilly," she informs me. "I'll be in the dining cart."

And the door slams behind her.

**Trey Lancaster's POV**

When Natalia and her mentor leave the room to strategize or whatever, I inspect my own lifeline. He's old. But that just makes him wiser, I guess. I feel safer already.

"You're a little one," he says, and I nod. "How do you plan on surviving?

"Nobody will see me as a threat." I look at my dish of the ice cream stuff that one of the workers brought me before, which has melted into a puddle at the bottom of the bowl, rather than my mentor. "I don't know too well yet. I'll hide out with my allies—"

"And who will your allies be?"

I go through the tributes I saw when watching the reapings, tapping my chin thoughtfully. Definitely not the tributes from the first four districts. They were almost all volunteers, with a few still scary-looking exemptions. Actually, I had only seen two people that were close to my age throughout every single reaping. And that was the girl from Five and the boy from Eleven.

"If I can get into an older group," I say slowly. "I will. During training. But if not, then I will make an alliance with the other younger ones."

Kurt takes an unhurried bite from a round piece of dough with a hole in the middle that one of the workers in the white uniforms brought him a couple minutes ago. I can almost see the gears turning in his head, thinking of the best strategy for me. I'm really happy that I got Kurt instead of Cherry. Cherry was just… terrifying. Hopefully, though, my district partner can handle her. She seemed to be almost as frightening herself.

"Okay," Kurt finally says. "Now, let's start off with easy stuff. What can't do you do?"

Weapons. I can't do weapons, and I tell him so. Handling something like an axe with my small build would be nearly impossible, almost a suicidal thing in the arena. But I _can_ find food. In fact, I live off edible plants some days when my house—which is always overloaded with seven people—seems way too small and I camp out in the woods. Just the openness of everything, the way the trees provide a sense of shelter and invulnerability, the freshness. It's my turf. That's where I live. I've been hoping the arena will be a forest, just for those purposes.

"Hunting?" Kurt asks. I confirm it with a brief nod. I don't like the idea of killing animals and eating them, but if I have to, to stay alive, I will.

Kurt and I talk about my strategy some more, saying how I can use my likability to my advantage, and I find it sort of diabolic the way we can sit here, pampered by workers who don't even talk, planning out how I, a thirteen year old kid, is going to stay alive. The world was such a nice place back in my district, for me, for my way of life. But here, I can already tell that things will change.

That, though, is an obstacle I'd rather not face now. I'll face death when it approaches me, not the other way around.

We finish speaking in the next hour, and Kurt tells me that I still have two hours to spare before we reach the Capitol so I'm free to wander around and do what I'd like. Thanking him for everything, I exit the dining cart and enter the long hallway with many doors. I can see my room. Beside that I think is Natalia's. I go up to it and knock once, twice, three times, but nobody answers and I'm pretty sure there's a rushing of water coming from behind it. She must be in the shower, so I give up on her and continue down the hall.

I open the door opposite of her room, finding a sitting area consisting of a couch and two armchairs, with an enormous television set hanging on the wall. I've never seen a TV that huge in my whole life! It has to be as long as me, two times, and a couple meters wide. Sheesh, the Capitol people and their luxury.

I enter the room grasping my token—a locket that has a picture of my whole family in it. There's my eldest sister who is the mediator of everyone and settles disagreements, my two younger sisters who are in constant need of outweighing the other and gaining attention, my baby brother who is too tiny to take much business in the daily schedule, and my parents who, although work very hard to provide for us, make my older sister and I sign up for tesserae. And then, in the middle of everyone, there's me. I like to think that I'm the fun loving one of the family; the one that can lighten up their moods, but is also a shoulder to cry on when you need it. That's who I am at school, and that's who I am with my family.

I miss them.

This is sort of like the sitting area we all watched the recaps of the reapings in, but unlike in the other one, this room contains a high shelf plastered to one of the midnight blue walls with books in it. As I get closer, I realize that they aren't books, but they're tapes.

Choosing one at complete random, I slip it out from the dozens of others and take a look at the cover. There's a picture of a girl standing on the edge of a cliff over a vast ocean, her blonde hair blowing in the wind, eyes set on something far beyond what the camera can see and a shadow of a smile on her pale pink lips. She holds a trident in her hand, completing the look. I flip the tape over to read the back.

_Aria Bluesee, District Four, was the heroic victor of the ninetieth Hunger Games. She fought her way through the Games alone, narrowly avoiding disasters with hurricanes, enormous tidal waves, and the other tributes. Watch to follow her adventure. This video has been brought to you by the official food sponsor of the Hunger Games, Capitolized Food Incorporated. _

They kill us for their entertainment and then make videos so they can watch the footage over and over again. It's terrible, more terrible than I thought it was before. But strangely enough, I'm a little bit curious; I take the next tape out. This one has a picture of an older boy in ripped up clothing, staring menacingly right at me through the camera, standing on the shore of a beach.

_ Edson Marble from District One and__ winner of the ninety-first Hunger Games was not a force to be messed with. He killed over half of the other tributes in the arena with his own bare hands. Want to see for yourself? Look inside. Watch the tale. This video has been brought to you by the official transportation sponsor of the Hunger Games, Trolley Trains and Other Transport._

I check a black-and-white clock hanging on the wall. I still have over an hour before we reach the Capitol for the chariot rides. And I don't want to sit in my room waiting the whole time. So, with some difficulty along the way, I turn the TV on and check for the spot where I have to insert the tape. Eventually, I get it all started up and a boy in diamond-encrusted clothes standing in a chariot pops up onto the screen. I place myself on the couch comfortably, enjoying looking at the chariot costumes and interview outfits. But then it swiftly cuts to a scene of the Edson boy who was on the cover ripping someone's head off with a long and sharp rock, laughing hysterically as the poor guy screams in pain, his blood dripping greatly onto the ground. I think I hear myself let out a yelp as I dive forwards to the TV, pounding the _off_ button with my fist so hard I take notice of something in the device letting off a _crack_ing noise.

When I realize that I will soon be involved in such violence and hatred, I scream again.

**A/N: ****I had this chapter written out earlier, but I read it over and hated it, so I erased everything to start from scratch. **

**I plan on getting through the rest of the districts before I leave—hopefully—if I can push one chapter a day. If not then I'll write it on the plane or something, because once I get back I just wanna get right into things.**

**Brownie points i****f you can see the somewhat vague reference to my last fic in this one.**

**Reviews make me write faster! ;)**


	10. District Eight Train Ride

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or the characters you're about to read about.**

**Angel Kramer's POV**

I stare at reflection in the mirror in the room they've given me. My long blonde hair flows gracefully down my back. My enticing blue eyes are fathomless. But my cover, this cover, is different than the inside.

Flipping my hair out of the way, I clench my fists, my nails digging in so deep that they draw blood, and spin away from the mirror. I need to destroy something. I need to feel something break in my bare hands. Without that, I am not complete.

I pick up a wooden chair by the leg and throw it across the room and into the wall. Once in pieces, I lift up every leg and the seat of the chair and break it with my fists and thigh. The breath that I release after the destruction is the second best feeling I've experienced, ever. The first best feeling is seeing the life drain out of someone. Seeing their fear. Making them so scared that they would rather kill themselves than be found near me. And as they take their last mouthful of air, you know that you are the one that stole the breath from their lips.

As I glance around the room, I realize that I need more. _I need more destruction._

The pencil I find in one of the dresser drawers is light in my hands, less weight than all of the other weapons I've been trained with. It does not feel like a weapon. It does not feel like something that could cause devastation.

Oh, but it will.

With ease I snap the writing utensil into two pieces. And then I use the sharp edge, pulling it slowly and harshly up my forearm, breaking through the first layer of my flesh while droplets of blood arise and trickle down my flawless ivory skin. I can smell it already. Metallic. Sweet. I immediately long for more, but not just of my own. Of others. Maybe I will not be able to receive that wish here, maybe I cannot rip the Capitol people limb-by-limb, but in the arena blood will surge effortlessly.

I swipe my open arm across my face, staining the fair skin there crimson as well. Wouldn't the other people in the district love to see me now? Wouldn't they fear me more? My father would. He would realize, after all of these years that it was no fault of his own that his baby son died mysteriously that one night. My stepmother would see it, too. And if only I could witness the fear on their faces. If only I could watch them as they see me murder ruthlessly in that arena.

If only.

The door to my room swings open abruptly as the fucking annoying escort Madeea with bright green _everything_ sings, "Angeeeeeel, m'dear, it's time for—" She cuts herself off as I turn to glare at her. I can tell by her terrified expression—the first truly petrified gaze of my competition—that she sees the broken chair on the other side of the room. Sees my bloody arm. Sees my face, splattered with my own blood.

Madeea lets out a high-pitched scream that has the Capitol accent ringing in it and runs from my room. I calmly follow pursuit, out the door and down the hall to the dining cart where the mentor and my pathetic district partner are waiting. I can hear the escort's screams echoing in the eating area, shouting something about blood, but I evenly enter the grand room after her and, much to the horrific stares of everyone around the circular table, pull out a free chair and take a seat at the table.

I love their fear.

Madeea is still standing before the table, and when I turn and give her a smile that isn't meant to be friendly or comforting in the least, she halts the shrieking and sits down around the table at a seat that's farthest away from mine.

My district partner stares. He looks a little scared, but that isn't enough for me. I take a knife and stab it viciously into the piece of steak in front of me. I cut it up into tiny pieces, and then squeeze each individual one to make sure I get all of the blood out. My family is the wealthiest in the district. I have steak on a daily basis. I don't need it here.

Everyone goes on staring at me as I swipe all the pieces of meat off my plate to the white tablecloth and, lifting the plate to my lips, drink the syrupy blood that I wrung from the beef.

The only mentor Serenity Mayfield—who won by stupid means, hiding out and picking off others—takes a swig of the red wine from the glass she has, and then looks at my district partner and me, but mainly the boy. "Shall we discuss strategy—"

"I do not need to discuss anything."

My district partner and mentor swivel in their chairs to stare at me again, while the escort pretends not to notice and quietly chews her meal, but that is fine. Let them wonder. It can only increase their fear. "I was prepared for these Games before I got here and there is no need for me to waste my time talking about things I already know."

"Oh. Well. Okay." Serenity looks relieved at my command. "If you think that that's best. Are you sure you're not… hungry?"

A grimace finds its way to my lips. "I'm quenched adequately for my liking." I look at each individual person around the table including the terrified Madeea for just enough time to show them that I'm not fooling around, and I watch their bodies shake, alarmed and afraid at the same time.

Good.

"You don't want to know anything about the Capitol?" the foolish mentor asks me as I stand and am exiting the dining cart. I don't let it faze me. I keep going, out the door, down the hall, and opening the entrance to my room to find a servant in an atrocious white outfit picking up the splinters of the chair.

"Leave it be!" I snap, the blonde-haired girl jumping up from her knees. She nods, ducking her head, and is about to disappear out of the room but I grab her upper-arm with my nails. She flinches in pain, but no sound comes from her. "Tell everyone," I say slowly. "Never to enter my room for the remainder of this trip."

I release my grip on her arm and she nods once more before scrambling out, clutching her upper-arm with her opposite hand. I clench my teeth at such a sight. The weak. This is where the weak end up. This is where they will all end up, as failures, fearing those above them and cowering away.

The door slams loudly as I shut it, and I place my hands on my hips and survey my room, my hands already longing for destruction. But they won't be satisfied with a measly chair thrown at a wall, now, or a cut down my forearm. I clutch a lamp in my hand, noticing how my knuckles go white, and hurl it at the bathroom mirror. Both material items shatter into shards over the ground, and I smile.

_More._

I punch a hole into the drywall.

_More._

I rip the bedspread to pieces. Throw over the bedside table.

_More._

When the mentor comes to get me as we arrive at the Capitol, I brush past her and assure myself that there will be more. Oh, there will be much, _much_ more, once I step foot in that arena.

**Naller Mahlon Versteeg****'s POV**

The escort is shouting incoherent words about how my female counterpart has gone insane, rushing into the dining cart, but she shuts up as soon as Angel enters the room and quietly and confidently takes a seat at the table. Everyone in my district knows that, although her family may be the richest, she's insane. Truly, mentally insane. My best friend Connor told me once that apparently when she was four she stabbed her cat open and spread the blood all over herself.

And now I find myself in a situation with this girl, where it isn't against the law for her to kill me.

Really. Quite peachy.

Everybody around the table watches as Angel slices her steak into tiny pieces, then draws all of the pinkish blood from the meat, pushes her steak off the plate and slurps up the liquid. I look away. The hell's wrong with her?

Brief words are exchanged between Serenity and Angel, but in the end Angel stands up and walks off to her room. That's followed by a lot of loud crashing noises, glass cracking, but nobody from the table or any of the workers feel the need to interfere with whatever's going on in there.

"How, uh…" Serenity chews her lip like she wants to get a conversation going, but the awkwardness of Angel's dramatic exit is keeping her from doing so. "How are you, Naller?"

I actually take time to think about that. How am I? Not too fantastic, that's for sure. My mother, my sister and brother and I were celebrating just hours ago my brother's final reaping. 'Course _I_ have to get reaped after that.

But I shake the thoughts of this morning's festivity from my head, looking back to my farewell in the Justice Building. My mother cried, saying how I would do well for all of us. I promised I would. My thirteen-year-old sister stayed stronger, held back her tears. Boulder, my brother, slapped me on the back and said I could do it and good luck. Then they left, and Connor came in. He's been my best friend since I can remember, with his two eighteen-year-old brothers tagging along with the two of us. For the most part, I keep all of them grounded; keep us all outta real trouble. But I miss their loudness here. I'd get in all the trouble in the world, no problem, if I could just go back.

"Fine," I lie with a mouthful of steak.

"Since I will only be mentoring one tribute this year, apparently," Serenity says, "I suppose we can spend extra time discussing you. What are your strengths?"

This conversation goes on for a while. I say that I'm loyal. I say that I can use a knife fairly well. But it seems a bit surreal. Does the mentor expect me to go into that arena and defeat someone like Angel with loyalty and a knife? She acts like these are strong strengths I possess, but I hate confrontation as much as the next guy from District Eight. How will I survive in that place?

"You won't be allying with Angel, will you?" Serenity asks once we've run out of other things to talk about.

Hah. "She's career material," I tell her. "And I'm not. So no."

She nods like she's thinking of other possibilities, and I eat a little bit of my chocolate cake dessert. I'm not privileged with a lot of fantastic food at home. Boulder has been working for two years, this has been my first and my mother brings home what she can, but even if we don't have a lot we have more than what we did when my father was still living with us. My mother kicked him out when she discovered his addiction to morphling, and that he was draining the finances because of it. I do miss him, but having a full stomach seems more important than having a drug-addicted father.

"You want allies?" my mentor questions and I nod, sigh, and lean back in my seat. I don't want to get used to all of this comfortableness right before I die, but it's too hard not to.

For the remainder of the train ride we all—and by _all_ I mean Serenity, me and the escort, as Angel is still too preoccupied with destroying her room to join us—watch the reapings. Nothing out of the usual. The first four districts seem like the strongest. Five has a large boy, a tiny girl. Six has a volunteer that doesn't look like much of a career. Seven has an older girl and a smaller guy. Angel is terrifying in the reaping, glaring at both animate and inanimate objects when she volunteers. Nine has two not-quite careers. Ten has a couple average kids. Eleven has a shorter male and a taller female. And Twelve's got two merchant-type tributes rather than the poor stereotypes the Games always get.

"Who do you think out of all of them you'd like to ally with?" Serenity turns to ask me on the brown leather couch we're sitting on, and the escort nods with her green hair bouncing in encouragement. She only wants a higher salary. She doesn't care about who I ally with.

"Nine," I say. The kids had muscle, but they didn't look qualified enough to fit in with the careers. "Maybe Ten and Twelve?"

The escort vigorously shakes her head from her armchair. "No. Don't go with Twelve. Twelve never wins. Not for twenty-five years!"

Serenity waves the escort's comment off with a flick of her hand. "Eh. Don't listen to her. I've been trying to put up with it for five years since she got transferred over from Eleven, and trust me when I say that her opinion doesn't matter too much." Madeea opens her mouth to protest but Serenity keeps talking. "Now, mingle with other tributes after the chariot rides and during the training sessions. Make allies and let me know who they are. You can do it, Naller."

Our conversation is interrupted all at once by a loud _bang. _Madeea nearly jumps out of her chair at the noise, and Serenity just sighs. I think, down the hall from Angel's room, I hear Angel laughing manically, but I choose to push that aside and excuse myself to my own room.

It's a nice room and all. There isn't much wrong with it. A large bed, a personal bathroom, a polished dresser, a little sitting area in the corner beside a window that looks out at the landscape that's flying by. It just doesn't feel right. It feels fake. It feels like they're trying to lull me into a false sense of acceptance. And as the large pine trees pass by the window, I wonder if those are the only real things here.

Soon enough Serenity comes and collects me to get prepped for the chariots. The train stops outside dazzling buildings, sparkling in all their glory, but it's fake too. Everything is.

"Ready to die?"

I look over at Angel. She's grimacing at me, raising one of her fists into the other palm and cracking her knuckles. To be frank, I don't exactly like her.

"No. Are you?"

But then I walk away, up ahead, so I can't see her face and determine whether what I just said was a great act of boldness or an utter mistake.

**A/N: I scared myself writing this chapter a little. **

**And yes, the reference ****was to Keith Marble's grandfather. Brownie points to Roseone223, Layniebird, Scoobygal, and .time for figuring it out! **


	11. District Nine Chariot Gone Wrong

**Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or the Hunger Games. **

**Bambi Zvoner's POV**

My prep team buzzes around me. Their names are too far-fetched for my pronunciation, but the first one doing my nails has pink hair, the second cleaning my freshly-waxed and bright red skin has a trench coat and knee-high boots, and the third standing at a distance and ordering the other two around is dressed resembling a banana.

"Yes, yes," the third says, circling me. I look at her from the spinny chair they've seated me in. "Good. Leave her be, I'll call Teela."

The three depart without saying another word to me, and I sit there in the chair naked. I feel uncomfortable, so I reach for the silver bathrobe I had on earlier when they dried my hair with some handheld device, slipping it on over my raw flesh. The cotton feels like a heaven.

Sighing, I lean back in the chair. Months ago my mother was twittering around the house, paranoid that I'd get reaped. She constantly cleaned every surface that was available to her while rambling on about how if I got reaped I would _have_ to home, yadda yadda yadda, and I simply didn't really take much notice to her as she gets like that before every reaping. Until now, at least. My dad says that since her best friend died in the Games she hasn't really been the same.

I'm named after that best friend, apparently. I've seen pictures of this other Bambi chick. She's stunning. Long hair, slim legs, doll-like features that the guys in my district obsess over. A good fighter, too, if my mom isn't lying, and since Bambi trained for the Games I can't find the tenacity to think otherwise.

Sometimes I wonder where _I_ get off, named after a person like her. She might've died but there're still expectations I gotta live up to. Expectations of beauty and being a good warrior that I can't possibly live up to in my most inane dream.

The room around me spins while I propel the chair across the space, the wheels skimming the polished, shiny floor with ease. It's a big room. There's a bath station, a shower, a couple more of these fun chairs placed in front of mirrors with large light bulbs surrounding them. As I twirl across the room, closing my eyes and feeling my washed hair flying like a cape behind me, I smile. It's a nice moment for such a terrible situation.

My ride is suddenly stopped by a force behind me and my body flies forward and out of the chair, and I land embarrassingly on my backside. My urge to swear is subdued by the splitting pain coming from my tailbone.

"Bambi, isn't it?"

I stare up at the woman before me. Her pink hair goes to the floor like a fancy wedding veil, a few inches trailing behind her. The pupil-less eyes glare at me from six feet above, and as I examine her ridiculous lime green overalls, I see that the heels on her shoes can't be less than seven inches.

My robe has become bundled at my waist in the tumble so I quickly stand up and smooth it out, my cheeks going red. Is this my stylist? What had the prep team called her? Teela?

"Yes," I say, giving her a smile that she doesn't return. "I'm Bambi. It's nice to meet you."

"We'll see," is all she says before demanding me to take off my robe. I do, but awkwardly. I don't like other people seeing me naked, even if I'm on the verge of death, even if they're only going to help me. And as her weird eyes examine me like I'm a difficult math equation that she can't figure out I already long for the smooth cotton against my skin again.

Finally she gives a curt nod. "They did an excellent job." Then she stomps off to some double doors beside the bathtub, throwing them open and taking out a long outfit that's concealed by a plastic cover. She unzips it with one hand while holding it with the other, and I see how I'll be perceived by the Capitol, by my sponsors, for the first time.

It's a short tan-colored dress made out of a delicate material I can't put my finger on, and it only looks to go down to my knees in a triangular shape. One of the sleeves seems to be missing at first, but then I realize that she must have made it this way on purpose so the one end hangs off my shoulder. The edges are jagged and made of feathers and a brown belt wraps elegantly around the waist.

I'm not sure what it has to do with hunting—maybe the feathers, but that's pretty vague—until she pulls out a thick brown headband that matches the belt and goes horizontally around my head, and a spear.

Handing me the dress, she tells me to put it on. I don't have a problem with that; I'm grateful to cover up and that I won't be dressed in some slinky outfit made of diverse and heavy furs like last year's tributes.

She puts the headband on me and sticks the spear, which I now see is only made out of a flimsy rubber with the tip glistened to make it look sharp, in my hand without saying anything else. My feet find their selves into a pair of tan leather hunting boots which she plants in front of me that sort of ruin the flow of the dressy girly-girl idea, and I appreciate that. I don't want my district partner looking tougher than me even if he may be of the male gender.

"Fantastic," she says, and touches up on the black shimmery stuff they stuck on my eyelids. She formulates my hair into a precisely perfect pose on my shoulders and, further more, down my back and chest. "You look like a hunter."

I suppose I do. But how much will this stick out against the career districts?

"Oh, well, thank you," I tell her.

"Senn is dressed accordingly." She changes the subject to my district partner—and, as we decided on the train ride along with our two mentors, my new ally—rather than accept my thank you. "You will match. Don't have conflict up there. That is all I ask."

"And that I don't kill him, right?" I joke, raising my rubber weapon in a throwing position. I stay in that situation, waiting for a chuckle or a silhouette of a smile, but Teela doesn't find anything humorous. She clasps her hands in front of her stomach and just stares, so I clear my throat uneasily and lower my hand.

"Follow me." She spins around and shoulders back and hair pursuing her exits the door we came in and starts down the long hallway. Hesitantly, I follow. We walk down that long hallway for a while and then out of the Remake Centre to meet the other tributes.

—

Senn has on an outfit the exact color and design as mine, except he's in pants and not a dress. He's shirtless but the stylist has drawn lines across his chest kind of like he's ready for battle. And instead of a spear he's got a rubber bow and arrow thrown across his back.

"Was your stylist… weird?" I ask him when we've encumbered our chariot that's being carried by two brown horses. I've always seen the chariot rides on television, but I never thought that the horses were _real _and _live_ and not under control of anyone.

He frowns, his eyebrows narrowing. "No. But my prep team was."

The horses jerk forward abruptly and both of us wobble unstably in our chariot. One of them neighs, but someone who must be a trainer quickly rushes out and gives it a carrot and then dashes away again.

Ignoring that and wanting something new to focus on, I take a look behind us at District Ten. Livestock, isn't it? They're dressed like butchers. They've got some fake blood splattered on their clothing, a fake butcher's knife—the works. Ahead of us, District Eight is dressed in trends, like the Capitol. I see bright hair, bright clothing, and a taste of the Capitol in them before they zoom out the Remake Centre's doors.

I swallow to get my beating heart under control, steadying myself from the neighing horses on Senn, and breathe. We're next.

**Senn Birch's POV**

I have to force myself to hold back my laughs when I see some of the people in the crowd. Scaly skin, bug eyes, _wings._ I wonder momentarily if, when Hatch was in this very same place, did he have the strange push to laugh that I have? He must've. What I can remember of Hatch was a funny, bright guy.

But my brother was then, this is now. This is a different place and if I dread on his memory I'm only speeding up my death. I can think about him later. When my sponsors aren't on the line.

Bambi laughs and nudges me, breaking me from my trance, pointing out a certain member of the audience. She's screaming my name—it's too loud to hear much, but I can see her mouthing the four-letter word over and over again—and jumping up and down in spot. Her blue beehive hair bounces with her, and at that I crack a smile.

I catch Bambi and I both grinning up on one of the screens, but it's only for half of a second. The cameras quickly pan to District Eight. The girl is ripping off her wig and tearing it to shreds, laughing and throwing it off the chariot while her district partner stares over, possibly a little frightened by this, but mostly looking plainly annoyed.

"She's a character," Bambi comments, and I smile briefly again.

Everything goes smoothly. We get some of the attention, but most of it is on the districts like One and Four, One being in scant robes and Four in fish scales. That was to be expected, though.

And everything is fine until Bambi reaches out to blow a kiss to the crowd with the same hand that's holding her spear, and, losing grip on that spear, the rubber thing goes flying into one of the horse's backs, up again, and hits the other.

Since the horses weren't that calm to begin with, I'm feeling a little alarmed at this. I mean, I've never really ridden a horse in my life, and it doesn't look like a trainer would be available ASAP if one of them did get out of hand. Bambi and I gawk at the animals, awaiting them to become wild, but nothing happens.

"Oops," Bambi says. "Well that's a relief."

But she speaks too soon.

One of the horses steps on the front of her spear, and although it's only rubber, the horse neighs upwards on its hind legs with the two front ones wiggling in midair. Bambi falls backwards and a few Capitol scream and run out of the direction of our chariot. I cuss, followed by Bambi, who I help up. We are allies, after all.

The other horse must see the panic because it soon takes off at full speed ahead, twisting around a corner so fast that the chariot flies outwards and narrowly avoids a couple people dressed in more bold colors that, really, are just starting to hurt my eyes now. A shiny building flashes before my eyes fast and I think we're about to soar straight into it but we weave just in time. Bambi lets out a short scream as the shouts from the Capitol people get louder, and I can see us approaching the District Eight chariot unyielding.

"Senn!" she yells, gripping the sides of the chariot for balance. "Use the bow and arrow!"

"And get them more worked up?" I yell back. "That isn't going to work." Squinting, I think about the situation. We're currently being towed by two crazed horses, and although a trainer may be on their way, I doubt that they'll reach us before we hit the Eights. Actually, I don't think I would mind hitting the girl. She never looked quite sane, not even in the reaping recap. The boy, though, I may have some regrets about.

"You think of something better then!" she shuts her eyes and sinks down to the ground of the chariot, putting her head in her hands. I only ponder for a moment whether it's because she's afraid or if she's regretting blowing that kiss-gone-wrong to the crowd, but then I do think of something better than shooting the horses with a rubber arrow.

I lunge forward and grasp the very front of the thing, nearly losing my balance from the running animals, but quickly regaining myself. My hands fumble over the reins, mulling over if I should try and steer them and settle them down, but hastily counting that option out as I'd probably only make things worse, and in the end just unhook the lines from the chariot.

The sudden cease of momentum sends out chariot flying to the side as the horses take off, and I feel myself take to the air and then to the hard cement ground, gravel digging into my flesh right beside Bambi, before the chariot topples over us with a _bang. _Breathing hard in the darkness, I go, "Are you okay?"

"I think so. Are you?"

"Pretty sure."

We wait in the blackness in near silence, the only sounds are of our breathing and the muffled yells of the people outside the empty shell we're lying in. Cracks of light stream in from under the upturned vehicle, but neither Bambi nor I make a move to attempt and get out. Someone is bound to come and help us soon enough, right? It isn't like the president has even read the Treaty of Treason yet. And I don't think they'd let us miss that highlight.

A few more minutes of the yelling from outside go by until the chariot is lifted above Bambi and I, and I help her to her feet. She wobbles, dizzy, but doesn't let most of it show as every single one of the cameras are focused on us. I don't bother smiling. What is there to smile about? These people are the cause of my death, Hatch's death, whatever injuries I've obtained from that horse fiasco.

A few of the Capitol people clap for us District Nines as the guys in Peacekeepers uniforms tell us to load the chariot that they've put in an upright position. Their faces are tense, their mouths set in a firm line. This hasn't happened before; I don't think they know exactly what they're supposed to do.

Eventually, they get a new pair of brown horses attached to our chariot that look a little sounder than the last two, but Bambi chooses to sit down anyways. I stand to the side, watching the frazzled Capitol people stare. Will that whole shenanigan get me sponsors? Or will we lose them because of it?

I sink into myself, my thoughts retreating back to Hatch. He was my brother. He died, here, when I was eight. And ever since then I've had only two people I can trust: my best friend Ash and my mother. My father's a morphling addict. He doesn't care much about me anymore. But I'd say that if I got half of the love I get now from my mother even then I'd be okay.

Ash was supposed to go into the Games this year. He got reaped. He was supposed to die. And although I can't stand the fact that I'm leaving my mother with the poor excuse I have for a father, I couldn't possibly stand to see my unrelated brother go off and die himself. Maybe he can't stand to see me lifeless either, I suppose, but as of now all of his family has been safe from the reapings. Much unlike my own. So I volunteered to everyone's dismay.

But I know, _know_ that if I didn't then I'd regret not doing so for the rest of my life.

My eyes scan the crowd again. Weird people, weird place. Some of them are yelling my name. I don't care to notice.

"Are you okay, Senn?"

Not turning around to look at Bambi, I reply, "Fine."

But I'm not.

But I can't let them all know that.

So I smile and wave to the crowd.

**A/N: ****Wow guys, sorry for the delay. I've seemed to acquire a tiny portion of a life the past two days. **

**I know that in THG Katniss said the animals were very well-trained, but in 175 years the Capitol's gotta make at least one mistake.**** Or at least, the Capitol I write about just did. ;)**

**And a thank you to Meea123 that helped me out with some of the chariot outfits. (:**


	12. District Ten Chariot Ride

**Sale Stride's POV**

I cut my hair for the chariot rides.

It used to fall in big blonde waves down to my waist, almost elegantly. But the arena is no place for elegancy. So, when the stylist goes to fetch my outfit which I'm sure I'm going to hate, I grab the pair of big silver scissors off the desk, undo the high ponytail the prep team put in my hair and let it fall loosely for one last time, and then chop it all off.

It only takes one hack of the scissors to send most of it to the ground, and I look at the blonde hair all over the floor. Well, at least now it won't be getting in the way when I kill.

"What—" The stylist emerges from the closet and looks at me, her eyes swooping to the hair covering in the ground. "What did you _doooo?_"

I thought it is pretty blatant what I did, but I respond anyways, "I cut my hair."

"_Whyyyy?_"

"Because I wanted to."

I turn to look at my new self in the mirror. My blonde hair now goes to the middle of my neck. My green eyes pop from both the Capitol makeup and my pale skin. Maybe my hair did look better long, but beauty isn't the point of these Games. Not at all.

She redoes my hair now that I've 'ruined' it, and puts it all in one braid held together with a butterfly clip at the nape of my neck, while I sit and look at my red-painted fingernails that match the fake blood splattered on my white clothing, simply just thinking. My district partner Keed didn't make a move to be my ally. On the train the longest conversation I had with him could barely be considered a conversation—he told me he has a girlfriend, and his mother is pregnant. I told him my parents are doctors and I have a sister related to me in every way but blood, my best friend, Jane. Then he said he was tired and went to his room.

But it doesn't matter. Making allies with a stronger, older guy would ruin the image of me that I want to show the Capitol, and the other tributes. Yes, I'll make an alliance. But with the weaker ones. I'll make them all think that I'm weak, too, while I know my way around knives better than anyone else in the district. I'm the fastest in my class, as well, but Keed is three years ahead of me in school so there's no way he could know that.

Because, really, I'll do anything to get home.

"Go, go, go!" my stylist shoos me through the door and down a hallway, out of the Remake Centre and into a large stable that holds the chariots and my competitors, per say. Keed and I are shoved into a plain brown chariot lead by two light brown horses—Keed in the exact same outfit as I am. I hold the fake butcher's knife in my hand, clutching the plastic handle as all of the other chariots, one by one, leave the stable. Keed, beside me, is staring off into his own little world. That's fine. I don't want to talk to him either.

I'm not sure what to do once our chariot breaks through the large brown doors and into a city of people and lights. Everything around us is bright and glamorous: the buildings exceed at least sixty stories high each, every single one of the balconies and windows lining them full of Capitol people—who are also sorta enthralling in the way they act and dress—and all of them cheering. I just stare, trying to look even more awkward than I feel, so once I get into that arena they'll each be more flabbergasted when I begin killing like a career. Like I have a chance to win this thing. And honestly, I think I do.

The Elevens behind us are in farmer getups. Straw hats and overalls. The Nines like hunters. And as we're touted by our horses around, my eyes are fixated on them and only them. Sponsors, whatever. I don't want myself to be noticed by anyone. I want to come off as innocent so I'm not an instant target for the careers, and only when I get into that arena will I reveal what I can do.

Suddenly a loud neighing sound comes from in front of us, and everyone in the square spins to look at the District Nines. The horses are going nuts. One is up on its hind legs and the other is trying to dash forwards.

"Holy shit," Keed says. Alas. He speaks. Or more appropriately, cusses. Same difference.

The Nine chariot races to the Eight chariot and I'm utterly grateful I don't come from District Eight or Nine—both are about to get squashed by supposedly trained animals—but then I can distantly see the boy jump to the front of the cart and let the horses loose, and the vehicle topples over, everyone screaming and in a panic, and the animals run harmlessly around the Eight chariot.

"He's gonna look like a hero, now," I say without looking at Keed. Our horses have stopped on the sidewalk and I take the short break to sit down on the floor, legs crossed and picking off the red nail paint. "You know that?"

My district partner nods but doesn't say anything. A couple Peacekeepers come and lift the cart off the tributes and the crowd goes wild, clapping and cheering and yelling the two names _Senn_ and _Bambi_ and I feel insignificant. _Is _staying low the best approach? _Should_ I make myself a threat first thing in these games of life or death?

No, I decide. No. I'll get sponsors. I just have to kill in there. And I will. Because I want to get home to my parents, and my best friend Jane, and—

Oh, Sale, I think. You are _not_ crying, you moron. You _refuse_ to cry because although you may be trying to seem weak you aren't _actually_ weak. Look at that, idiot, that's just great, now the tears're ruining your makeup.

"Are you okay?" Keed asks.

I rub my nose off on my sleeve. Thankfully the cameras are still focused on the Nines as our chariot starts trotting along the road again, the hooves of the horses making a calming _clip clop_ sound against the screams of the crazed Capitols. I face Keed replying, "I'm fine. Why would you think otherwise?"

"Well, you're kinda crying."

I snort sarcastically, but end up sniffing in the process. "No I'm not."

He doesn't say anything else when the horses walk briskly forwards and the Capitol people squeal. Scarcely any scream my name. A handful, more so than the ones I have for me, yell for Keed. Not very surprising. He's pretty big for a District Ten-er. He towers over me by at least two heads and stares off like his mind is in a totally different place than mine is. He's probably thinking about his girlfriend and pregnant mother. He probably wants to get home just as much as I do. But that plausibility couldn't be lower.

Same could be said for me I suppose, but if I can just get my hands on a knife then I can survive. I hope.

Keed is friendly, I grasp all of a sudden as we make our last turn around the circle and he catches me whilst I fly forwards. He's really friendly.

Except for me to get home, he has to die.

They all do.

**Keed Ogle's POV**

I'm standing there as the stylist and my prep team swarm around me, commenting on how my hair is too long and my eyes aren't sparkly enough. I look at my hair falling on the floor while the chop of the scissors goes on chiming in my ears. But where I am—getting ready for these chariots—it doesn't seep in yet. I want myself to realize that I'm going to die. Except I don't.

Instead of seeing the oddly styled people around me I still see my girlfriend Karin saying goodbye to me in the Justice Building. We kiss, we hug, we say that I'll come back. But everyone says that, don't they?

And then there are my parents. My mother's stomach is bloated with her pregnancy, and she's crying. I don't know what to say to her because anything I think of will probably only upset her further. My dad stands to the side for a moment while I pat my unborn sibling, it kicks a bit and my mom starts sobbing, and then my father embraces me. He slaps me on the back. But any more comforting is cut off by the Peacekeepers, who inform them that their time is up, and they'll have to leave.

The train was basically a subdued version of the Justice Building. For the most part, I avoid people. Confrontation, not exactly my thing. The only time I'll bother to get up and really put a bunch of effort into something is when I literally cannot afford to, as in, my job. And when I want to work, I work hard. But when I don't have the purpose, then I can't.

And now the chariot prepping—thank God it's over and they're leading me into a chariot with my district partner—but don't even get me started. Going through that was one of the most painful things I have ever experienced—although once I get into the arena I'm sure something will top it—and struggling against it was completely fruitless. They strapped me to that table while they plucked every visible hair from my body. They _held me down._ You'd think they'd be fulfilled with seeing someone murder me on live television, but I guess the Capitol people aren't satisfied easily.

From in front of me I hear a loud neigh and immediately my real surroundings flood back. Weird Capitol people clapping and yelling, and forwards, the District Nine chariot going crazy. I watch stunned as the horses take off to the District Eights. "Holy shit," I say to Sale.

She stares at me like I've grown an eye where my nose should be but then the horses come to a stop while Peacekeepers lift the vehicle off the Nines, and Sale takes a seat on the ground while inspecting her nails. "He's gonna look like a hero, now," she tells me. "You know that?"

I'm not sure what she's talking about, why they would look like heroes, but I nod anyways. Sale looks back to her red nails. I stare at my fake blood-splattered shirt. What else is there to do besides start in conversation with my district partner—which I don't really want at the moment? At least, not until a rather noisy sniff comes from her way on the floor of the cart.

I blink a couple times. She's crying? She's actually crying? Here? Now?

"Are you okay?" I ask.

She glares at me with red eyes. "I'm fine. Why would you think otherwise?"

"Well," I say slowly, wondering if I should've just left her alone in her depression in the first place, "you're kinda crying."

"No I'm not." She sniffs again.

I blink some more before deciding it'd be best to leave her be now, so I go to the front of the chariot away from Sale and see the rest of the Capitol. There are so many of them, crowded around, yelling things I can't comprehend from the absolute noise, that I have to say that this must be the entire population. There's more than thrice the amount of people that District Ten has—if you can call these things that lust for our blood _people_. I can't still consider them humans.

We go round the buildings and I stand and stare at the Capitolers, only waving to the ones that look mildly sane, while Sale is set behind me and looking confusedly at the horde. I don't want to be mean, but I'm not sure she stands much of a chance in that arena. She doesn't look like she carries much muscle around with her. Like the bloodbath sort.

At last our chariot stops as President Reed recites the Treaty of Treason, _happy Hunger Games, _and subsequently we're pulled back into the big stable we started off in. Sale and I climb out of the vehicle—she goes straight for the elevator on the other side—and I examine the other tributes briefly. You've got the careers, the average ones that would be okay with only a knife, and the poor smaller ones that wouldn't stand a chance if they received every alteration available. But I don't exactly feel like talking to anyone so I follow Sale's lead and enter the elevator, made of glass, along with the girl from Eight.

Nobody talks in the ride to the eighth floor—and, furthermore, the tenth—but I do notice the Eight watching Sale and I from the reflection in the glass. Her blue eyes wide, she only looks intently at us until we reach her floor and when the exit opens she leaves the elevator, and just as the doors close she manages to turn around and say, "You will both die. Soon."

"Have a nice night to you too," Sale scoffs after the elevator is moving up quickly again. The only elevator we have in District Ten is in the Justice Building, and even that's slow and old and it creaks like it's about to collapse whenever it moves. This one, though, zooms up as fast as one of those hovercrafts.

A soft _ding_ noise interrupts the annoyingly perky elevator music that had been playing and the mechanical doors slide open, revealing the tenth floor. A grand marble hallway is the entrance, and beyond that I see it branch off into two more hallways, all lined with doors. Neither Sale nor I get one step out before the escort pops up.

"I WATCHED FROM THE BALCONY," Heather—pronounced _Heath _-er, not Heather—screams. He rakes a hand through bright yellow hair as he continues. "YOU KNOW YOU WERE BUTCHERS, NOT DEAD MEAT, RIGHT?"

Sale says, "No shit?"

But Heather doesn't seem to hear her. "YOU TWO STOOD THERE. AND JUST LOOK AT WHAT HAPPENED WITH THE NINE CHARIOT. THEY STOLE EVERYONE ELSE'S THUNDER. BUT YOU DIDN'T TRY TO TAKE IT BACK! YOU BARELY EVEN WAVED!" He stops for a moment, I think so he can breathe, and his eyes run over Sale. "WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR HAIR?"

She just snivels a bit and runs down the marble hall, to the left, and soon enough I hear a door slam. By now Heather has attracted the attention of both the mentors, Cara and Poppy, and they come rushing out of one of the doors asking what all the hype is about, but my eyelids feel pretty heavy and I don't think I have the energy left to do anything else, so whereas they're all still talking to me—and in Heather's case yelling—I walk away and along the same hallway Sale went down. Behind me the mentors and Heather are all screaming at each other. I don't think they are aware that I even left. But that's fine, so I ask a servant which room is mine and they lead me to one that I could, without difficulty, fit my entire house in two times and plop down on the silky bed sheets.

**A/N: Woooooooooow guys. **_**So so so**_** sorry for the humongous sized delay. Like I said I was on vacation. But unlike I said I didn't have a lot of internet access. I DON'T full-out abandon stories, ever, never ever once I start them. My family does go on vacation often, but as of now it's going to be an entire year until my next trip. So we don't gotta worry about that anymore.**

**I want to make it up to you all somehow, maybe a little contest later on, but we'll see how far my creativity extends with **_**that.**_

**Anyways, yeah. Thank you to everyone who has been patient with me. ****:)**


	13. District Eleven Aftershock

**Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or the Hunger Games. Sigh.**

**Luna Night's POV**

I dismount the chariot yanking up the one strap of my overalls that keeps falling down and off my shoulder while puffing a stray strand of black hair out of my eyes. District Twelve and their coal-miner outfits will probably get more sponsors than me, Luna, the farmer.

Right about now I just want to fleet off to that elevator and to my room, rather than sit around here and talk with the other tributes. But to survive, I need allies. There's no point in thinking otherwise, I'd really only be wasting my time, and I think that when my life's on the line I can spare a few minutes of social behavior.

My eyes scan the throng. Some muscled-up guys are talking in one corner, comparing their abs. Nope. Definitely not them. And not the girls gossiping while they wait for the elevator either, that one chick from One's got scary blue eyes that ward me off immediately.

So, who then?

Remembering the fiasco with the Nines, I'd say that my best bet would be those two. I stand on my tip-toes to see above everybody else and, finally, I catch a glimpse of the two sitting close together off to the side of one of the chariots and pointing at the guys showing off their muscles, laughing and mocking them. My kinda people.

Taking a deep breath, I stalk over to them in my leather lace-up boots and put on a smile. I have to stand in front of them for a few moments before the boy, Senn, notices that I'm even there. He clears his throat and Bambi looks up too, her giggles stopping instantaneously when her eyes land on me.

I decide I should be the one to take the initiative. So I go, "I'm Luna. District—"

"Eleven," Bambi finishes for me, gesturing to my outfit.

"Unfortunately for me," I say, pulling up that one strap again, "yes."

Senn cracks a smile. Bambi's mouth twitches, like she's trying not to grin, as if she's internally debating whether or not she can trust me. I make the decision for her by offering her a hand to shake, plopping down softly on the ground next to the pair. She takes it with a firm grip.

"You two had quite the chariot ride, no?" I ask to get some conversation going. The gears are already turning in my mind. If I can persuade the Nines to be my allies then I already stand a hell of a chance. But I'll need more than them. The Threes, perhaps?

All in good time.

"You noticed?" Senn questions in jest.

"Hard not to," I say lightly back, ignoring the scrutinizing gaze of Bambi. "So have you guys made any plans of allies?"

Bambi says, "No," before Senn can reply.

I turn slightly so I can meet her eye, but she doesn't seem to want to make eye contact with me. Her eyes jump around on every object in the stable _but _me and as I blink a couple times, wondering what it's about, I realize that something isn't right with that. This is the first time I've spoken to her. The first time she's spoken to me. What could she possibly have against me at this point?

Disregarding that, I say, "Great. I was wondering—"

"DAMN!" the Nine shrieks suddenly, clapping her hand down over her forearm dramatically. "Some kind of bug just bit me. I should—"

Okay, that's it.

"If you have a problem with us being allies," I tell her, and Senn's eyes are flickering from me to Bambi and back to me in a panicked expression—he obviously doesn't want to be caught up in the middle of something like this, "then just tell me. Don't beat around the bush; don't pretend that you've got bitten by a bug. We'll all be dying soon anyways so you may as well get it out now."

A short, lingering silence hovers between the three of us. I see one of the smaller girls in the competition staring over, the District Five I think, clearly fazed by my rant. But I stand up and brush off my knees, awaiting Bambi's response with an impatient tapping foot.

"I'm sorry if you took my behavior the wrong way," she says coolly, standing up as well. "But as of now, I'm tired from the experience I've had today." She swivels to look at her district partner. "Senn, I'm going up to the ninth floor. You can stay as long as you'd like, I don't want you to feel obligated to do anything." Before walking away, she says a few final words to me, "It was nice meeting you, Eleven, and I hope to talk to you again tomorrow."

But from the tone she uses I'm going to assume the last thing she wants is to speak to me any more.

She enters the elevator with one of the boys that had been flexing, I'm pretty sure he's from Two, but once away from his friends he slinks back into the corner and ignores Bambi as much as she's ignoring him. Then the doors close, and they're both gone.

"Do you know what that was about?" I ask Senn.

"Uh, no. Maybe I should go find out."

"Yes," I comply. "Maybe that would be best."

Making enemies right now isn't in my best interest. I don't want a strong person that is probably capable of taking me down just yearning for the chance to chuck a knife at me, so I jerk my head in the direction of the elevator, and tell Senn that I'll talk to him and Bambi at training. He gets in with that little girl that had been gawking at me earlier and it's only after I'm positive that he's actually gone do I make my way over to the Threes.

—

My bed shapes to my form, and it isn't difficult to get comfortable beneath the fluffy sheets, my head resting on the feather-filled pillow. I'm still trying to figure out why Bambi didn't like me so early in the competition. Not that I particularly care what other people think, usually, but in a situation where I have twenty-three others out to kill me, it'd be kind of nice to know these sort of things.

Did I say something? The brisk conversation flies through my mind. I asked them about their chariot ride, but could she be so uptight that she was seriously angry at _that?_ Does she just not want any other allies than her district partner? What if she just doesn't like me at all from the few words we exchanged?

Ugh. I hate this. I want to be back home with my family, with the two twins Nico and Nina however much they tug at my nerves every so often, and my other, more tolerable sister, May. She cried in the Justice Building. Sobbed. I felt horrible, even though I had no control over what was going to happen. So I promised myself that I'd do everything to stay alive for her and the twins and my mother, who's been strong through my father's abuse, and making allies was the first thing I thought would help me with that. So, maybe at times I speak my mind harsh or not, it doesn't necessarily mean that I'm a bad person and Bambi has the right to judge me, does it?

I may be physically comfortable, but sleep is unlikely—impossible even. The Threes were nice enough as we said we'd talk more tomorrow during training, but the predicament with the Nine bugs me. I'll confront her about it. Or Senn. She's bound to tell her district partner those things, isn't she?

I groan into the supple pillow, pining more than ever for sleep to overcome me.

**Birch ****Coleo Jernehy's POV**

They say that the combined screams of the Capitol people during the chariot ride ceremony are tremendous, and no amount of noise has in history topped it. That's what my mentor told me, anyhow. I guess that it's a bit of a shame I'll never get to hear it.

I can see these strange people, at least, waving and blowing kisses. I wave back smiling. And, unlike every other tribute's here, mine is real. Yes, I have been summoned to my death. I doubt that a fourteen year old can last long with all of these other competitors. But I've been deaf for years. I've forgotten the sound birds make, and the way it echoes in your ears when you bite into a crunchy fruit or vegetable. Sometimes I wake up in the morning, back in the district, longing to hear the ruffle of my blanket as I sit up in bed.

But it's never happened.

Now, though, with these alterations that the Capitol's announced, I'll be able to hear again. Maybe I will die soon, but when they picked Aloe, my twin brother at the reaping after announcing the twist for this year's Quell, I knew what I had to do. What use would I be in Eleven if I stayed in the treetops picking fruit for the rest of my soundless life? Aloe has a better life ahead of him than I do. So I want to let him live that a little.

I think that my district partner, Luna, is saying something to me, but her mouth is moving so fast that I can't make out the words. I pretend I don't notice and go on waving and smiling, jumping up and down on the balls of my feet a little while the wind rushes through my perfectly messed-up hair, a la my stylist Willow.

Throughout the entire ceremony, counting the Treaty of Treason, I don't think I could wipe the grin off my face if I wanted to. Today will be my last day where I can't hear the sound of my own voice. Tomorrow, I'll be able to hear the birds sing and the apples crunch. I just want everything to be over with so I can get to tomorrow sooner.

After the Nines nearly die we finish the way around the City Circle and enter the place where each of our chariots started off. I can see girls talking and laughing, boys admiring some of the girls in their costumes and showing off for them, the Nines and my district partner having a disagreement and another girl and guy arguing by the elevator. I think the guy is from Twelve. But I don't remember who she is.

Although nothing really matters. For once in years, I'm happy. _Happy._ Not just the smile I stick on for Aloe and our parents occasionally so they don't get worried about me and stuff, because here it just comes naturally. I practically skip to the elevator where a boy about my age is waiting along with the two disputing tributes, and stand beside him while I contain my excitement.

_I'll be able to hear the sound the elevator makes tomorrow._

I'm so immersed in my thoughts I don't notice the two people—the Twelve and that still unknown girl—arguing beside me, or even that the boy my age is trying to say something to me until he waves his hand near my face. I snap towards him. He sticks out a palm for me to shake while I read his lips, "Hi. District Seven. My name's Trey."

Scared to give my deafness away by speaking, I beam back and nod as the elevator doors slide open. Nobody here needs to know my temporary weakness, and if it got out to the Capitol people, my sponsors, then I doubt that I'd have half a loaf of bread available for me when I'm in the arena. It isn't like these are the type of people who take such imperfections nonchalantly. So I step into the lift along with this boy and the girl and other guy, who are still having a disagreement.

Trey says something to the girl, who has kind of scary dark eyes, and she blinks to stare at him and grin, goes, "Sorry buddy," and ruffles his black hair. The Twelve rolls his eyes and the only word I catch coming from him is, _fake._ Her menacing eyes narrow, but by then we're at the seventh floor which must be hers because she follows Trey out, Trey saying a concise goodbye to me.

_Tomorrow, I'll be able to hear what my voice is like._

The Twelve and I approach the eleventh floor without him saying a word to me. I climb out and into the big entrance way where Luna already stands, telling something to the mentor Zany. They both stop speaking when they see me even if I can't hear them—though I suppose Luna's got no idea I'm deaf. Zany does. But she's the only one mentor for District Eleven; I was kind of required to tell her about it. They greet me; I nod in return, and retreat down the hall to the left and into one of the bedrooms the servant leads me to locking the door behind me and entering the bathroom immediately.

_Tomorrow, I'll be able to hear the sound of the water pounding the floor of the shower,_ I think while turning on a dial. There're a lot of them. But one is blue and one is red, so I spin the blue one all the way to the left and am greeted by icy, yet somehow refreshing, water. Everything I'm going to be doing relies on tomorrow. On the day that, after years, I'll finally be able to hear again. My mind doesn't flit for a second away from that one subject, and I don't want it to, because it makes me really, really happy.

I want to explore all the buttons on the panel so while the water pelts me I click a purple button in the first row. Soap squirts out from a nozzle, and I instantly recognize the scent of an orchid. Next I press the white one on the bottom. Honeysuckle—it reminds me too much of Liana; I swiftly hit a red and white striped one in the next row over. It smells like a Christmas with Aloe and my parents, like candy canes and a little like evergreen trees. I experiment some more but end up deciding that the Christmas-y scent was the best yet—the one that was most familiar and made me feel more at home, so I spray that once more before getting out of the shower and dry off with a fluffy towel.

Now that I've been reminded of Liana I can't push her out of my head. Minutes ago I was enjoying that I would hear again. But Liana… she's a different story. She's the one person that brings it directly back to my attention that, so_ what_ if I get my hearing ability back? _I was still deaf._ I didn't live a good life. I had a couple friends, close ones, like Liana. All before the incident. But then the incident happened. And I couldn't hear anymore. And all my friends, including her, flew away like bats straight outta hell.

I sit down on the bed in just my towel, rubbing my temples. She was always with me in the treetops while we picked the fruits, the apples and the pears and peaches and plums, tossing them down into wicker baskets as we told jokes to each other. I thought we had something. And I let myself believe maybe someday we could be more than friends.

Couldn't've been more wrong 'bout _that_ one, hey?

I hope I'm not wrong about anything else. Like that I won't mind dying if I can hear the world again, just for a short period of time. Truth is, I'm a little nervous about it. About everything.

I put my head into my hands and groan. Aloe, where are you when I need you most?

**A/N: One more chapter, and then we're onto training! I've got a couple dramatic things planned for **_**that.**_** Unfortunately, it doesn't involve anyone getting punched in the face this year…**

**But oh, the arena is COMPLETE. I know I said it was mapped out before, but over my vacation I really added some more evil little things and now the stage is set. Gosh, I'm too excited. Thank you to everyone who helped out with the mutts, all that kind of thing.**

**Review? (:**


	14. District Twelve Reverberations

**Disclaimer: ****I know that it's a shocker to everyone, including myself, but I don't own the Hunger Games. Or Calla and/or Luke—the characters that are featured in this chapter.**

**Calla Lilly Warbucks**

I run into Krow after making a narrow escape from downstairs. Too many people, too much noise, I couldn't take it. I walked away from Luke once he started speaking to the girl from Seven and basically booked it to the elevator—thankfully I was alone on the ride up—and then I was off to my district floor, chin tucked to my chest as the elevator beeped twelve consecutive times while we passed each other level of the Training Centre.

Krow is waiting when I arrive. He's the only mentor District Twelve's had in the past how-many years, and on the train he told us stories about his family. Luke didn't really listen, just picked at his food like he was superior to it, but I found it fascinating. Krow won volunteering to save the girl he was in love with's little brother, won, and then they got married and had three children named after his friends in the Games. He said it all sadly, like although it's a very happy ending, he lost something in the process. And it reminds me of Maria and Calder. But I have to push them aside for the time being.

"How did it go?" questions Krow. But I know he must've been watching with the other mentors and escorts from the balconies, so the question is only for a conversation's sake. How did it go? How does any District Twelve chariot ride go, tell me that.

I shrug and tuck a piece of coal black-highlighted hair behind my ear. I really need to wash that stuff out, it looks ridiculous. "It went fine."

He nods, rubs his cheek under his purple-ringed eyes. "Tomorrow will be better. You'll meet allies. But Calla…" He stops and blinks a couple times, going into and back out of what looks like a horrible memory he can't get away from. "Don't like them too much. They're your allies, not friends and definitely not family."

At the word family my stomach flops a bit. My own memories of Maria, of Calder, run through my mind. And it's out of character for me to blurt things out, but I'm unable to stop myself from asking Krow, "Do you remember Calder Hawthorne and Maria Rose Warbucks?"

It's kind of hard to say their names aloud.

Maybe I've said the wrong thing to my mentor, though. His eyes seem to sink in more and he rubs at that spot on his upper-cheek again. "I remember all of my tributes, Calla. Why do you ask?"

"I—" My stomach flips back over. "Well, it doesn't matter. Never mind." I can distantly hear him asking me if I knew them, if I want to talk to him about anything, but my blood rushes in my ears and I soon can't hear anything but the door clicking with a gentle click behind me and the water from the shower thumping against the tiled floor.

I don't want a shower. Eventually I'll wash the black streaks the stylist put in out of my hair, yes, but right now I don't see the point. I sit on the washroom floor still in my coal miner chariot costume, and raise my knees so I can rest my hands comfortably on them, and then my head into my hands.

It's only because of the shower that nobody hears me cry.

To be honest with you, I'm not too sure who I'm crying for. Everybody, myself, Calder, Maria, my parents. My dad's the mayor. I'm not from the Seam. I don't look like the typical Twelve tribute. I've got long blonde hair that looks too familiar to Maria's and light grayish bluish eyes that I inherited from my father. Freckles across my nose that are prominent from being in the sun while I eat outside, alone, every lunch hour for the past year, sometimes reading to keep myself preoccupied.

But I can't stand it. Being alone all day every day. Solitude from the rest of the world. They all judge me because of my sister Maria Rose and the way _she_ treated people. Which wasn't exactly good. And I've never said anything about it and I don't think I'll ever receive the chance, but I don't exactly think that what they did was fair.

And after last year, I'm just mixed up. I've hated my sister because of who she is, but she's my sister. How can I _fully_ hate her? And then those thoughts get crushed by others when the vision of her slitting Calder's throat—the one memory I wish I'll forget, because I'll take the solitude for the rest of my life if I don't have to see what happened that night ever _ever _again—pops up. She wasn't my sister, then. She was someone else. A monster. Who later got tortured by the District Two with the very knife she killed him with. Killed Calder. Killed the boy I was sure I wanted to marry.

I wipe my eyes, embarrassed to be crying even if there's nobody here to see me, turn the shower off and wipe my nose on a towel. I feel bad for the person that has to clean that.

Streaking the steam off the mirror with my palm, I stare at my reflection. My eyes are bloodshot. The rest of my face is pink from crying. And every few seconds I let out an involuntary hiccup.

Well, isn't this just great. Last year my boyfriend and sister died in the Games. My sister killed my boyfriend. Then she got tortured to death. And after a year of suffering without them and listening to my mom cry and see my dad stare at Maria's gold locket I refused to use as my token like it'll bring her back from the grave, I'm here too. And Calder may have taught me a couple things—how to identify edible plants, how to hunt and skin an animal—but what will those do for me when I couldn't hold my ground in combat with more than half of the other tributes

A short rap comes from the outside, and I look away from my reflection to the door, and back to myself. My eyes are still bloated underneath with pink streaks running through what used to be white, and the tip of my nose is red. But do I care? Do I care if someone sees me at my weakest?

No. I don't. I didn't care at school the past year, why should I start now? It isn't like anyone sized me up to be huge competition here in the first place.

So I exit the washroom and answer the door, finding Luke leaning in the doorframe. He takes in my appearance for a second, realizes I've been crying, but I only gape unblinkingly at him. "You knocked?" I ask abruptly, to break the silence.

"Yeah. But if this is a bad time—"

"What do you want, Luke?" I scratch at an itch on the nape of my neck, as if I'm oblivious to the fact he's deterred that I've been crying.

"I couldn't find one of those assistants in the white outfits, and I wanted to see if they have those old Games tapes around here somewhere. Y'know, where they show past Games and stuff?"

I still don't blink. "Sorry, no. But if you find out then let me know."

"Will do, sergeant." He mock salutes me, so I let my guard down and allow myself to smile and salute back. I haven't had a friendly moment with anyone since… Calder died. As he stomps off down the hall, dramatically raising his knees higher in the air like a Peacekeeper, I shut the door and swallow the familiar lump that's building in my throat. I cried. And that's all I'm going to give myself. Anything more I'd consider stupid and useless—it won't help me get far in these Games and it won't help me compete for Luke and Maria, so it's just completely futile.

I brush my fingers over my token lightly—a leather cord, choker necklace that Calder wore when he went hunting, and into the Games. The bright waterfall charm dangling from it reminds me of my family, while the cord itself Calder.

I stare at the necklace. No, I won't let any of them down.

**Luke Cove's POV**

"When you bump into somebody, it gives you a nice opportunity to apologize."

I look at the Seven. Long dark hair, dark eyes that are pointed at me. I had knocked her over while climbing out of the chariot, on accident of course, and I'd even tried to swiftly help her up and everything. But did that matter? No. It didn't numb that I essentially knocked her over in the first place.

"Actually, I offered you a hand when you fell," I tell her. "You didn't accept it. That was a form of an apology."

Her eyes narrow more and she crosses her arm over her chest. Suddenly I wish I had followed Calla when she hightailed it away from the two of us and to the elevator.

Seven scoffs at me. "I'm totally capable of getting myself off the ground. I didn't need your help for that."

Excuse me, then. "The point is," I say with a sigh, and begin to walk to the elevator. Why I should even bother continuing with this conversation is beyond me. "I offered help. It's the thought that counts, Seven."

I press the up button. It lights up but the doors don't open. Dammit.

"My name isn't Seven."

"Well, what is it?"

"Doesn't matter."

I turn to meet her eyes levelly. She seems about my age, sixteen or so, but I've still got a couple inches on her. Although, I don't return the grimace that she's shooting at me—instead I give a hint of a smile to show that I'm confident and not afraid of this girl. Even if, maybe, she does frighten me a tiny morsel. "I'm going to assume most of the hostility you're directing towards me is because of the awful name your parents have given you, Doesn't Matter."

I think something strikes a nerve when I mention her parents, because from then on out she doesn't stop insulting me. Not still when two of the littler tributes pop up and look awkward standing beside us, and I say, "Not in the front of the kids," but on she goes at it. And, so, maybe I'm fighting fire with fire a small bit by insulting back, but what else can one expect from me?

The four of us—the two little kids, me and Doesn't Matter—get into the elevator when it arrives. I inform her that there is no way I am apologizing after she didn't accept my offer to help her up off the ground, and she's about to retaliate, when the little kid with black hair pipes up, "Natalia, it isn't worth your time."

The angry features on her face are at once replaced with a genuine smile, and she ruffles the kid's hair. "Sorry buddy. You're right."

It's irony coming from my mouth, but I go, "You're fake."

And we argue all the way up to the seventh floor, where Doesn't Matter gets off with apparently her district partner, the little dark-haired squirt, leaving me with the other younger guy. So I just twiddle my thumbs and pretend I don't realize he's there until he gets off at Eleven, and then me at Twelve.

Krow meets me as I get off the elevator. He paces around the entrance way and runs his fingers through his lighter, grey-streaked hair. When he sees me he stops. "Luke. How'd everything go?"

"I had a nice little chat with the girl from Seven," I say and pass him to enter the dining room, grabbing a bright red apple from a glass bowl in the center of the polished, wooden table.

"Good! You're being social. Do you have a strategy, or…"

"I'll figure it out later," I say with subtle indifference, as if it isn't my death on the line, as if I'm not aware of the reality of what's going to happen in just day's time.

Trust me, I'm aware of it. _Well_ aware. But I didn't let any type of weakness show back in the district—I'm not weedy in Twelve, I'm confident, the joker of my group of friends, ask anyone—so I don't see a reason to drop the act here. My charm obviously didn't work with the Seven chick, but I'm sure it'll help me get tons of allies during the three training days coming up.

"Okay," Krow says. He looks exhausted. "I'll talk to you about it another time. Don't let me down, Luke."

I bite into the apple and make my way to my room. "I won't."

I've never let anyone down, I don't think, besides my parents. And my sister. My sister died in the Games only a few years ago, and I may put up a shield that makes me seem strong and confident, and doesn't let anyone see inside of me and demonstrate to them that I really do care for other people, but when it came down to it I didn't do anything to help her. In my mother and father's words, anywho. I don't know what I _could've_ done—volunteer, and risk both of us dying?—but my parents didn't see it like that. They saw it as I was too selfish to help my sister. And I've given up trying to please them, with just about everything, since then.

Everyone else though, they sure don't see me letting them down a whole lot. I never get anyone angry with me at school—I can even charm the teachers out of giving me a detention—so I guess that's why the District Seven outburst nags at me in some corner in the back of my mind so much.

And, naturally, I simply just don't want anyone really gunning for me in the arena.

After just minutes I'm already sick of sitting on my bed, and searching for a flaw in the grand room that'd show me it's not only me who's not perfect, so I get up and knock on Calla's door. It takes her a minute, but she answers. Her entire face is red. Her eyes are puffy and her hair is up at the oddest angles. It wouldn't take a genius to figure out that she's been crying.

"You knocked?" she snaps, but it isn't in an unfriendly tone.

Calla's always struck me as the emotionally stable type at school. Her sister died in the Games—like mine—but unlike mine hers wasn't exactly the kindest person in the district. A couple of my friends were actually glad to see Maria Rose, Calla's sister and the mayor's oldest daughter, go. And, I think it's both a bit Calla's _and _everyone else's fault, that she's been isolated from the rest of the school because of it.

But I've definitely never seen her cry before.

"Yeah. But if this is a bad time…"

"What do you want, Luke?"

What do I want? That's a good question, Luke. What _do_ you want? I was just looking for a conversation with my district partner, discuss if we were allies and, if so, who we'd team up with, perhaps, but now that I see that she isn't the best state, I rethink that. She probably needs somebody to talk to. It's just I have no idea what to say to someone who needs comforting, if she does, and she looks it. What if I say the wrong thing?

So in the end I make up some lame excuse and manage to tie in a cheesy joke that makes her smile, while I pretty much gallop off down the hall like an idiot.

But what else am I to do?

**A/N: Ahhh, after this chapter I might have 200 reviews. Holy crap you guys are ahhhh-maaaa-ziiiiing. Thank you all so, so so so, much. **

**Training next. Woo-hoo! **


	15. The Training Sessions Start

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or the following characters.**

**Kimberly Guerrant's POV**** (MD2)**

I don't _feel _any different after the surgery. They've postponed the Games an extra day this year, so the Capitol can work on all the tributes for the alterations, and going into that medical room… I was scared and feeling very vulnerable. These are the people that have the power to send me off to death. And they were going to—according to the nurse I asked; I've always trusted nurses considering my father is one—expand my lungs? Or the space between them? Or something like that? For greater stamina?

How can you _do_ that without killing the person whose lungs are, apparently, about to be expanded?

But I wake up from the whole thing feeling… a little refreshed. My throat is kind of sore for some reason, but every breath I take somehow seems deeper, and better than the last. I ask Lia what she feels like—she told me she was getting her eyesight enhanced—and she just said that she could see everything in better detail. Then she stopped talking and blushed a little because her stammer was catching up with her. Again.

Lia hasn't spoken any more words than the mentors forced her to. I sorta feel bad for Lia, as she'll die before a lot of the others, but I can't let it show I feel such a way because her fear only means that my strategy is working. On her, anyways. We'll see about the other tributes today.

In the elevator going down from the second floor, I breathe in quietly and puff my chest out, stick my elbows at an angle to show off the muscle that's bulging from the black t-shirt my stylist set out for me, and don't even look once at Lia. She returns the favor by occupying herself with picking a hangnail on her thumb. I wonder briefly if she'll even be accepted into the career pack.

The doors open and I step out first, with Lia in my wake. Only a few other districts are already here: Three, Eleven, and Nine. I've taken the effort to memorize all their faces and match them to their districts so I'll have an advantage in the arena.

Three is talking amongst themselves. Eleven doesn't seem to pay much attention to each other. And Nine sits in the corner whispering, they eyes going from one of the other tributes to the next.

Since there is nobody from the career pack here, I turn to Lia. "What's your preferred weapon?"

She blinks a couple times, as if she can't really believe I'm talking to her whatsoever, but recovers fast and says, "B-bow and arrow. What's-s yours?"

The stutter only makes me feel worse for her, but I choose to keep that thought to myself, too. In response to her question, I only tell the truth. Besides, if I want to come out of this as a leader of the career pack—it'll keep my cover better rather than if I was just _there_—I have to increase my scare factor. A lot. "My fists," I tell her simply.

"Oh." Her face goes whiter than it was before.

Thankfully, I'm not required to feel even worse for her anymore, because just then the tributes from One arrive. The girl gets out of the elevator first. She's petite, not really much muscle, but as soon as her daunting blue eyes land on me I'm scared that they'll be able to see through my fake persona. But I promptly reassure myself that she can't. Nobody can. I'm a good liar, and if anyone figures it out, well, I'll kill them before they can reveal it.

Maybe. Killing is just such a horrible thing to do.

The boy enters the waiting room next. Typical One. Blond hair and green eyes. He, unlike me, doesn't have to fake the confidence.

"Victory." The girl approaches me, sticks out a hand, and it takes me a minute to figure out that she's introducing herself. Victory is her name. Her parents must be a modest couple.

"Kim." She gives me a funny look, like Kim's a weird name, but I can't let myself be affected by the little things like that. I shouldn't care what she thinks of my name, right?

Lia tells the female One who she is which earns us both more inquiring looks from Victory, probably because of the stammering.

The boy has come over to join us by now. When she sees him standing beside her casually, like he can't be bothered to introduce himself or something, Victory sighs and rolls her eyes and sticks her thumb in his direction. "Right. This is Evan. He—"

"Can speak for himself," he finishes for her. We shake hands; I grip his extra hard to show him I'm not fooling around, and we all turn to look at the elevator as it beeps a new onset. The Fours have arrived. The girl's Peyton, the boy's Dillon, both pretty quiet and reserved. As everyone immerses themselves in conversation about their strengths and only strengths, no weaknesses are brought up, I scan the room. More districts are arriving by the second. After only a moment of scrutinizing I realize that Eight is the one keeping us from going straight into the training facility, the last district to get down here.

We all wait for a few more minutes—really, we careers are the only ones speaking at a full volume and nobody else is daring enough to follow our lead—, and I'm just starting to consider the Eights rude for being so late when the elevator doors open and the pair walks in.

The boy is typical. He looks out of place, but also like he could hold his own weight in the arena. The girl, though—

Why did I _ever_ think I stood a chance?

Because, I tell myself. You're strong. You're a tank. You're Kimberly Guerrant, and you're the victor of the 175th Hunger Games.

Hopefully I'll believe that one day.

She stalks right over to us, glaring. "I'm Angel. I don't want to waste my time with your names. You'll all be gone soon, anyways. Let's just get through with the technicalities as painlessly for the rest of you—not that I care if it's painless or anything, don't get the wrong idea about me—, shall we?"

Then she stomps off through the doors that have just opened to a large and vast training centre. Everyone in our little—well, not so little—career group gapes as she walks away.

Victory scoffs, but probably only because Angel can't hear her. "And that, everyone, is what a first-class bitch looks like."

Bitch? I'm not going to judge her that way. I don't like judging people, because it hurts when I find out someone's judged _me_—mainly 'cause I can't prove them wrong that I'm not a big, vicious killer out for blood and that I'm actually a nice guy.

But I will say that nobody's frightened me more in my entire life. Not even my mom.

**Levve (Lay-vay) Morton (FD6)**

Things with Mick and I haven't lightened up since the train ride. If anything, they've only worsened. And when he goes off, totally separated from everyone else in the training centre, throwing knives at fake dummies and hitting them at fatal shots while the instructor cheers him on, I think that I may as well already be rotting in the ground.

"Lost?"

I turn to face the girl from Eleven, who's smiling broadly at me. I realize that I'm standing in the middle of everything, watching as everyone else does their own thing, and I'm sure it must look awkward.

My feeble attempt to return the smile fails. "Yes. What about you?"

"Oh, very. What do you think of the other tributes?"

She's trying to make conversation with me. A possible ally? My thoughts have been rotating so much on Mick and how to avoid him in the arena, that any reminiscent of an ally would've been immediately diminished by fear. But, now that this girl is talking to me, I know that it'd probably be a good idea to speak too.

"They're interesting," I say.

I don't necessarily mean it as a joke—I mean, I'm going to die soon, and throwing gags out there isn't something I'd be known to do—but she chortles at it. "I know what you mean. Have you seen the girl from Eight?"

Have I? Who couldn't? A bitter shiver visibly runs up my spine at the mere mention of her, and the girl whose name I can't quite remember laughs at that, as well. "Exactly my own thoughts. But I think I'm going to head to edible plants. You wanna come?"

I've said, what?, six words to this girl? And yet she wants me as company at edible plants—which I don't exactly need any work on from all the studying I've been doing the past few years, none of it for any particular reason really. But I accept the offer and follow her to the edible plants station, scratching at the back of my hand and keeping Mick in the corner of my eye.

Gosh, he's good with a knife, isn't he? That isn't good news for me.

"If it irritates your skin," the instructor at the plants station says while rubbing a type of red berry over his forearm, "then more times than not, it isn't safe to eat."

I already know all this. But allies, I need allies, and this Eleven girl is practically throwing me an invitation. I can't deny it, can I? My mentor wouldn't want that.

"Hey, guys," I hear her say to someone other than me, and I look away from the instructor. She's talking to a girl and a boy I distinguish from District Nine; they probably wouldn't be so familiar if their chariot hadn't gone insane. The Nine girl raises her eyebrows almost to her hairline and the boy forces a smile. Luna goes on, motioning a hand in my direction. "This is… Levve, right?"

"Yes," I say.

"I'm Senn," the Nine boy outstretches a palm, and I shake it. This all is happening too fast.

"Bambi." She smiles at me, vaguely, and when it fades, she looks back to Eleven unsurely again.

The instructor hands us each three types of plants and leaves—they're all plastic, but they resemble what they're supposed to be very well. I can tell what they are almost instantly from the books I've read. The one on the left is poison ivy; the three leaves are a pretty big giveaway. The one in the middle is stink grass, which is edible for the most part. And the far right one with a berry is deadly nightshade. And if you know the name then you know it isn't edible.

I look at the others. Senn is zoned out like he's thinking, and not succeeding. Bambi is staring into space to not look at the Eleven—whose name I really should find out. And Eleven is tossing her long black hair out of her face and saying, "The only one you can eat is stink weed. And even that isn't too wonderful."

Well, she's from the agriculture district. 'Course she'd know that.

"Very good," the instructor says.

I catch Bambi running her tongue along her gums and chewing on her lip nervously. What's the deal with her and Eleven?

Lunch comes, and since I don't like being totally alone and I know that these three have accepted me enough to be considered pre-allies, or something along those lines, I pull up a chair and take a seat across from Senn and beside Luna. I learned her name when Senn called her it in the middle of the edible plants session.

"I think I'll try a big weapon next," she says between a nibble of the garlic mashed potatoes. "Like a sword. Or an axe."

"What alteration did you get?" Bambi asks.

Yesterday's events suddenly come back to me. Waking up from the surgery, my arms feeling slightly heavier than usual. They were hard to lift at first, because they added muscle to my upper-arms, but eventually, I got the hang of it. I would've tested the new ability out more, experiment, if Mick wasn't wandering around everywhere glowering, worrying me more than I've ever been worried before in my entire life. I don't know what alteration he got because I didn't want to ask him. Anything.

"Enhanced hearing," Luna says. "It's wonderful. Right now the girl from One is talking about how she got her name."

We all look over at the careers at the other side of the cafeteria for a second. The girl from One sure is talking, but nobody seems to be listening.

"Ahh. I see. Good luck with larger weapons, then." But Bambi quickly moves on. "I got survival knowledge." Senn mumbles something about increased stamina.

Nobody asked, so I don't say that I got upper-body strength. If I don't have to reveal something about myself then why should I?

"I think I'll go get more food." Luna stands up with her tray, consisting of an empty plate, in her hands. She walks off towards the buffet-style table at the other end of the cafeteria.

"I'm sorry if I seem unfriendly," Bambi says quietly, once Luna's gone. She's talking to me. "I'm not usually this way."

I might be pushing something, somewhere, maybe my own normally set boundaries, but I feel like if these people are potential allies then I need to know. "Why are you this way now, then?"

She casts a wary glance in Luna's direction. I don't blame her. Luna _did_ get the hearing enhancement.

"It's nothing against her, personally," she tells me, and sticks her fork in a cube of cheese. "But my mother's been depressed for years. And Luna's district's got something to do with it."

To me, it makes no sense whatsoever. But I figure she'll let it out in time, so I nod as if I understand, although I don't, and scratch at my hand.

**Sale Stride's POV (FD10)**

To be honest, I'm not sure how it happens. One minute I'm standing at the snares station, admiring the way I can see every fleck of dust roaming through the air and every crevice and contour in every single person's face in the room, and the next I'm making conversation with the District Threes. Both of them speak to me, but it's mainly the boy, Farrow. By the way he talks, it seems like he knows how to take control of anything, anywhere. But not in a conceited way. Just as if he's used to it.

Anna-Marie, his district counterpart, volunteered. I remember seeing her on the recaps, wondering why in the world she would. Not that she doesn't look fairly strong and smart. But still. It isn't as if she stands a huge chance in there.

"So." Farrow, Anna-Marie, and Naller the boy from Eight, who we also met at the snares section, and I all sit down during lunch at our own table. But it's Farrow who speaks first. "What are your guys' alterations? Mines eyesight."

"Same!" I exclaim, maybe a little too juvenile. But I'm weak, remember? "Isn't it cool?"

"It is." He nods, and Naller, who also apparently chose the same alteration, concurs with us.

"Navigational knowledge for me," Anna-Marie informs us all.

"Well, don't feel left out," Naller says. "I could sure use that right about now. Or last night. I got lost twice on the eighth floor, trying to find the kitchen. I woke up my mentor and my district partner—" He lets out a dramatic shiver, "—and, let me tell you, Angel didn't appreciate it."

Anna-Marie laughs, I grin, and Farrow smiles politely. I'm just glad that someone's able to lighten up the mood, as if I end up with these people in the arena despite the fact I told myself that I'd only ally with the weakest here, then at least we won't all be daydreaming of ways to stab each other in the back.

Or, I suppose I'll never know that for sure. Just like they've no idea what I can do, I haven't one clue about what they can. Except maybe see in the dark and memorize where the bathroom is. The difference is, I won't let them find out anything about me until it's dire that I have to.

**A/N: I know the alterations will be confusing, so I've provided a list below with each tribute and which one they've chosen that you can refer to at any time. No other tribute knows what their competitors received until the training scores are shown, (unless obviously they choose to tell them) in which their alterations are broadcasted for the Capitol.**

**MD1 – Evan Palmer – Enhanced hearing**

**FD1 – Victory Lux – Enhanced hearing**

**MD2 – Kimberly Guerrant – Increased stamina**

**FD2 - Palilalia 'Lia' Kingston – Enhanced eyesight**

**MD3 – Farrow Alliyatt – Enhanced eyesight**

**FD3 – Anna-Marie Schleben – Navigational knowledge**

**MD4 – Dillon LeDron – Survival knowledge**

**FD4 – Peyton Bieda – Survival knowledge**

**MD5 – Summer Whitesell – Healing knowledge**

**FD5 – Nan Weatherall – Healing knowledge**

**MD6 – Mick Revelain – Enhanced hearing**

**FD6 – Levve Morton – Increased upper-body strength**

**MD7 – Trey Lancaster – Weaponry knowledge, knives**

**FD7 – Natalia DeGuzman – Increased stamina**

**MD8 - Naller Mahlon Versteeg – ****Enhanced seeing**

**FD8 – Angel Kramer – Enhanced hearing**

**MD9 – Senn Birch – Increased stamina**

**FD9 – Bambi Zvoner – Survival knowledge**

**MD10 – Keed Ogle – Enhanced hearing**

**FD10 – Sale Stride – Enhanced eyesight**

**MD11 – Birch Coleo Jernehy – Enhanced hearing**

**FD11 – Luna Night – Enhanced hearing**

**MD12 – Luke Cove – Enhanced hearing**

**FD12 – Calla Lilly Warbucks – Increased stamina**


	16. A Second Training Day as the War Begins

**Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own the Hunger Games or these characters.**

**Natalia DeGuzman's POV (FD7)**

After the first day of training, I'm feeling mildly confident. I've made friends with Calla, from Twelve, but sat with Trey at lunch because Luke was with Calla. And after the incident following the chariot rides, I wasn't exactly ecstatic for the chance to get buddy-buddy with the male Twelve tribute.

The second day Trey takes off to be with the girl from Five, who's around his age, and the boy from Eleven. The three of them start tying snares and making traps and fishhooks, but still I stand and just observe. I see a couple alliances already forming. The careers, as every year. The Nines, a Six, and an Eleven. The Threes and a Ten and an Eight. Then you've got Trey's little posse. And how is it that they all already look like life-long friends? Attempting to fit in anywhere other than with Calla now would be fruitless.

So even though I'm probably going to regret it entirely later, I work with Calla at a couple other stations. First we go to knot tying together, her progressing far more than I do, and then it's off to knives. I'm the one that suggests it, and Calla doesn't seem to agree as while I listen to the instructor's tips on which way to hold them she just stands at a distance, watching me, flinching whenever the knife leaves my hand.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

She only shakes her head. "Nothing."

Lunch arrives, and, since Luke isn't here yet, I sit across from Calla at one of the few empty tables. It isn't like I'll back down once someone starts something. But if I can avoid losing my temper and bringing attention to myself in the middle of a day of training, then you bet I will.

Our chitchat is shallow and halfhearted. We speak about what we think the arena is, the other tributes—but that's hushed, because who knows who received the hearing alterations—, and only vaguely about our families back home. I mention nothing about my abusive father, just that he's passed on, and how I have a little sister Jetta and a mother. Calla only says her father's the mayor and she used to—used to? But I don't question it—have a sister.

It's when Luke joins us when things get spiced up a little. I'm undecided whether or not that's a good thing.

"Hey, ladies." He slips in beside Calla, who gives him a sarcastic smirk. I pretend not to notice that he's arrived.

"Calla, nice to see you again. And Doesn't Matter, always a pleasure."

"Doesn't Matter?" I repeat.

"You told me that's your name. I daren't go against someone like you about it."

As much as I try to take this as a compliment, for his sake, I can't.

"You didn't take the small effort to learn my name?" I demand. "I bet you know every other tribute's name in this room _but_ mine."

"I asked you what your name was." Setting his fork aside, he digs into a pile of steamed vegetables. "You told me Doesn't Matter. Just like I tried to help you up, and you spazzed about me not apologizing."

"_Spazzed?_" I say, astonished. I hear Calla groan and see her press her forehead against the shiny tabletop like she wants to be anywhere other than here. "I didn't _spaz._ What kind of a word is that, anyways? And if you don't like me so much, why are you here?"

He nudges Calla with his elbow, who groans into the table again. "She's my district partner. _Duh._ Now it just seems like you're finding an excuse to yell at me."

It's annoying, how much he can figure out about me while we've had two, uncivil at that, conversations. I don't like people knowing me like that. Not with my father, not with these strangers that will have to die for me to live. So to prevent it from happening again I snap out at him. "Don't be so quick to assume. I bet underneath your cockiness and arrogance you're scared. _Terrified_, even."

He stares at me for a second. There's a long pause while I wait for him to respond. But he doesn't. He goes back to eating his vegetables with his fingers, picking out all the carrots and shoving them to the side of his plate, out of the way. So, what does that mean, then? I've won?

To establish triumph, I go, "See, that's what I thought."

It doesn't last long, however, because now he's picking up a handful of the carrots he hasn't eaten and throwing them right in my face. I gasp inwardly as they all bounce off my eyelids, nose, and cheekbones, and then plop onto the table, one hitting against Calla's blonde head and making her look up.

"Did you just throw carrots at her?" she questions Luke.

He gestures to the vegetables that're now splattered around the table as if it couldn't be more blatant.

What else do I have to do? I pick up some of my own vegetables and chuck them at Luke. Calla's harsh whispers of protest, saying how everyone's staring, fly in one of my ears and out the other when a wad of mashed potatoes land in my hair. I throw my entire glass of ice water onto him. Behind us I hear giggles, some of which sound like Trey, and I turn around for a split second to see Trey's threesome following mine and Luke's lead and throwing food at each other—except they're doing it for fun, not for hate.

And it's only once Calla crawls underneath the table to hide from our flying food do the girls from Four and Eleven join in simultaneously. Soon, all hell has broken loose in the cafeteria, and I feel mashed potatoes thrown by one of the little kids hitting my back and raspberries tossed by Luke smashing against my plain white T-shirt; the stylist will not be happy.

Shouts and yells erupt, and food is soaring so thickly throughout the air I'm unable to see where mine ends up and if it hits the target. I can't help it—I'm laughing. I'm flinging chicken and laughing. It's just kind of, I don't know, fun, a bit, though it was started by Luke's frustration towards me. Luke is laughing too, I can just hardly tell because his face is nearly concealed by food. I wonder if I look so stupid too and only laugh harder at the thought.

"STOP!" I hear somebody scream, but nobody takes much notice to the instructors at the entrance of the cafeteria area, and it doesn't take more than a couple of moments for them to be covered with the Capitol's food, as well. Well, at least it's yummy. "STOOOOOOP!"

We don't stop immediately, but it gradually slows down, mostly because we've all run out of food to throw. Everyone stands—besides Calla and, I suspect, probably a couple others who are underneath the tables hiding—panting, engulfed in silence, wondering what to do next. The instructors, one with macaroni pasta and cheese all over their shirt, and the other with spaghetti noodles dripping off their head, break the stillness. The one with the spaghetti in their hair goes, "Back to the training centre, all of you."

**Nan Weatherall's POV (FD5)**

Birch and Trey are my two allies at this point. I've wanted those two from the beginning, along with a couple others, but I'm perfectly content with just them. I mean, we get along great, and had a blast at lunch. The food fight thing drew us all even closer than we had been before.

The three of us stand slightly aside at the knife station, now. Trey got an alteration that allows him to wield a knife better and he's just testing it out, teaching Birch and me small things along the way. With the new techniques that the Capitol has—fascinatingly yet creepily, though I shouldn't be talking since I now know everything about healing—inserted into his brain, he's as good as the career girl throwing them at the other end of the station. Well, almost. But I think the Eight's terror factor makes her seem better than she actually is.

Birch scrunches his eyebrows up in the middle of his forehead. "Y'know, I love the hearing enhancement I got, but everyone's voices are ringing together and I've got a big headache."

"Weak. Like the others, you will die. Only sooner. Not quicker, though. Sooner."

Birch, Trey and I all spin to look at who's spoken. The Eight. She's far away, at least ten meters, and there's no way she could've overheard us unless she also obtained the hearing enhancement.

But her words strike me, hard. Weak? She called Birch weak? And told him he was going to die slowly? What kind of person says something like that? Not a good one, I know that at least. And Birch, poor Birch. She doesn't know him. What gives her the right to judge him? She has no right to do so, and it's only bullies that would think otherwise.

"Hey!" I say. She hears me, obviously, but she doesn't acknowledge it. "Hey, you!"

Trey shushes me, Birch tells me it's no big deal, except for the fact that it _is_ a big deal. I don't like bullies.

Eight chucks a final knife at a dummy; it lands in between the eyes and on the bridge of the nose, before swiveling to look straight at me. Her eyes go from my skinner legs to my red hair, and I don't like it. Like she's analyzing me or something.

"Don't talk to him like that," I tell her, trying to build myself up to her height and failing.

"I will talk to people how I please to," she says calmly. The tone of her voice suggests she believes she can't be bothered to feel anything other than superiority towards me, and I don't like that either. She may be the most petrifying tribute in this training centre right now but that doesn't excuse her from saying what she said.

Trey shushes me again and tries to pull me out of there, and although I know it'd be basic logic to obey him and get the hell out of here before she makes it her mission to kill me, I shake Trey off and my feet stay fixed to the spot. On the inside, I'm shaking. On the outside, I'm fuming.

"No you won't," I inform her. "Not to my friends."

She picks up a new knife, running a fingertip over the edge of the blade. Her wide eyes stay downwards at the blade just long enough to scare more crap outta me, and then they abruptly turn up to glare. I still stand my ground, even when she says, "And you, little girl, will die even sooner than he does." She raises the arm with the knife in it, and for a second I think that she's going to throw it at me and Trey lets out a shout for help, but her arm twists at the last second and instead the blade lodges itself into a dummy's heart. She hadn't been looking when she threw it.

Then she walks away to a couple other careers, the One tributes; the girl One, without delay, starting up a conversation with the Eight while the boy looks at me; he must've witnessed what just happened because he gives me a tiny—so tiny I can barely see it—contrite smile. He loops a finger around his ear and points secretively to the Eight to imply that she's crazy, which earns a laugh from me and Trey. Birch is still too busy apologizing for something he didn't do. One smiles for a last time before turning away completely.

But the realization is still there.

What did I do?

**Summer Whitesell's POV (MD5)**

For the most part during the first one and a half days of training, I walk around, showing the other tributes that I actually have _some_ skill, and occasionally looking down at my token—that cuff that both of my brothers wore into their own Games—to remind myself why I'm here. Not to please my father, not to allow him to have a victor as a child, the only thing he's seemed to want as long as I've known him—which is why both of my brothers died in these horrible Games. But to avenge my brothers. And I'll get back to my little sister, to save her, before my father forces the training upon her.

It's after the food fight the second day that I really meet a possible ally. Or allies.

I'm trying to tie a proper knot for a trap, one that will bring a tribute up by their ankle and suspend them in the air, and I think I've got it done accurately. I admire my work for a moment before someone says, "You did that wrong."

The girl from One, Victory, stares at my knot like she wants to rip it out of my hands and redo it all herself. The girl from Four, Peyton, sits next to her, legs crossed in a meditation-like position. "No he didn't, Victory. It's right."

"Peyton, I'm sitting right here, right next to him, so I think I could tell if it's wrong better than you can. And it is."

"Did you get the survival knowledge microchip planted into your brain? No. I believe that was me. You got that stupid hearing enhancement that half of the other tributes got."

"Yeah," Victory says. "And I have enough of a headache because of it, so I don't need you yelling in my ear while I'm trying to talk to people."

Peyton scoffs and throws a long strand of brown hair coated in some kind of sauce, most likely a result of the fight at lunch, over her shoulder. "Angel wants to kill you, just to let you know. She says you talk too much. Which I find strange considering Evan's told me you're usually quite reserved and keep to yourself, back in your district, so you can't blame me when I wonder if this is all an act."

One glares at Four, and I blink a couple of times until Victory turns back to me with a smile on her face. "Sorry about that. Anyways, your knot is wrong. Did you go _over_ the first step, not under it, like you were supposed to do?"

"Uh… no. I don't think I did…"

"You're sure the rabbit went over the hill and not through the hole?

"Oh, this is stupid now. Give me that!" Peyton has stood up and stomped around Victory to my other side, snatching the knot out of my hands. She inspects it for a moment, blowing the occasional loner bit of sauce covered-hair from her eyes, and Victory and I are waiting in silence when she drops it back onto my lap. "Okay, so maybe the knot _is_ wrong. You didn't do the third step twice like you were supposed to." The next part seems to be addressed to Victory more than me. "But it isn't like I got enhanced eyesight. You can't blame me."

"You'd be surprised on just how much I can blame you for, Peyton. Starting with my headache. And ending with this big-ass orange juice stain I have on my shirt."

The District Four rolls her eyes and, apparently deciding it isn't worth it anymore, looks at me. "Victory's been rude and I haven't gotten the chance to introduce myself. I apologize." She grins and sticks out a hand. "I'm Peyton Bieda."

"Yes," Victory says, voice soaked with sarcasm, while also offering me a hand to shake. "I've been terribly rude. Compared to Peyton you can call me Angel and hate me forever. I'm Victory. It's my name, it's my game."

"Summer Whitesell." I shake both of their hands. I thought that I'd be the one having to introduce myself to the careers if I wanted an 'in' on that alliance, definitely not the other way around. "District Five."

"I know. I recognize you from the reaping. Your poor district partner's gonna get mauled by Angel in the arena. We heard her telling Angel off today, and anybody who's seen Angel knows what your district female tribute did wasn't wise."

"Don't talk like that!" Peyton tells Victory, slapping her across the arm. "You speak like the poor girl's already dead!"

Victory raises her eyebrows. "Isn't she?"

Nan told Angel off? I smile a little at that thought. She must've picked something up from the mentor she has, Lilly, who's got a pretty big temperament herself. And I can't say I'm glad I missed the showdown between the Eight and Five earlier.

But suddenly I catch sight of my token again while the two careers go on arguing, and remind myself once more why I'm here.

Not to socialize. Not to feel a lot of sympathy for my district partner.

But to win. For my brothers.

**A/N:**** Alright, so to address a few things I've put off:**

**I will put a list at the end of each chapter, during the Games, as to who is still alive.**

**And sponsoring… well I've got a couple ideas about that one, but I think I've come up with a, maybe not **_**totally**_** simple, system that's basic enough so it won't get too many people confused, as well as take me hours to figure out who has what amount of money. I don't want to do what I did for the final eight last time, where I just let everyone send in weapons and loads of food, blah blah blah. So it'll have some guidelines, at least. I'll include a separate chapter for that later. **

**Thanks to everyone who's been reviewing so far! **


	17. The Last Training Session

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to Suzanne Collins. The following characters belong to their rightful owners. **

**Birch Coleo Jernehy****'s POV (MD11)**

It's the third day of training, the third day that I've been able to hear again. This morning I woke up early to take a shower. I was able to hear—_listen_—to the water. And, at breakfast, I heard myself crunching the oat cereal and Luna going on to one of the mentors about how an ally she made totally hates her, for no particular reason at all. And I don't even mind the escort's squeals of delight both Luna and I inform her that—aside from Luna's situation with the District Nine, apparently—the training sessions are going wonderfully.

The escort's voice _is_ rather high-pitched, though.

"How's your alliance?" Luna asks in the elevator, going down.

"Good!" I've realized that my voice is deep, and I now love enunciating every little sound of each letter whenever I speak to someone. And it probably isn't the best thing to say, because it sounds conceited, but I love hearing the sound of my own voice. I've sung, too, in the shower, and perhaps I don't have the best singing voice, but it's nice to hear the melody and tune strung together. "How's yours?"

"It's going fine," she says. And we're silent for the rest of the ride.

We're the last district to arrive today, and I get a couple of dirty looks from the tribute's we've held up from training as somebody pins my district number to my back. But I can't blame them for the glares. These are the last few hours we'll get of training, before we go into the sessions with the Gamemakers.

"What are you guys gonna show for the private sessions?" Trey questions at the edible plants station. He doesn't have to bother telling us what _he's_ doing. If he did anything other than something with a knife, the whole alteration would've been a waste.

But I consider his question. I'm okay with plants, since I'm from District Eleven, and Nan has taught me well in the snares department. But that won't get me a score higher than a three, at most. The only weapon I can _really _handle is the bow and arrow. I have the upper-body strength for it. And spears—I can throw spears fairly well—but they don't always hit the target.

"Bow and arrow," I decide.

Nan contemplates while sorting through plastic poisonous plants. "I can't exactly show the Gamemakers my new healing abilities without hurting them first," says Nan. "And it probably isn't in my best interest to stand up to Angel Kramer, _and_ maim the Gamemakers within forty-eight hours, so I guess I'll just tie a couple snares."

I can feel my cheeks heat up when Nan brings up the incident with Angel. Technically, it was my fault. If I hadn't said anything about the headache, then Angel wouldn't have called me weak, hence Nan not needing to step in and tell the scary District Eight off for me. And if Angel does end up killing Nan now, I think we'd all consider it at least partly my fault. Nan's my friend. I don't want her death to be because of me.

She must see the blood rushing to my cheeks and, now, the tips of my ears, because Nan goes, "I told you already, Birch, it isn't your fault. Besides, if she didn't say something to you, she probably would've said something to someone else. And then I'd have had to yell at her for _that._"

Trey laughs lightly at her comment and I force a smile. Angel said I'd die slowly, and if I do, I'm just glad I got to hear someone laughing once more.

**Keed Ogle's POV (MD10)**

I think the only reason that they want me in their alliance is because they need me. See, they have Natalia, who's more of the agile fighter of the group. And then there's Calla, who apparently knows how to hunt. And Luke knows the technicalities like snares, and how to devise plans within a half a second.

Me, I'm the new brawns.

I was at the mace station swinging one around when Luke approached me, straight-up offering to be in an alliance. I hadn't really asked anyone thus far. Sale was doing her own thing with the Threes and the less-creepy Eight, so I stood off to the side, practiced with the weapons I thought I could handle, ate lunch alone, keeping to myself. And now, just before the third day of training ends so we can go to lunch and, further more, the sessions with the Gamemakers, _now_ they want me in their alliance?

Not that I'm not perfectly content with it. Clearly if Luke hadn't approached me, I wouldn't have approached him, and so it's all for the best. I hope. Unless they're planning to kill me in my sleep, where as then I'll know I made a big mistake accepting all of this with my head down.

"Your alteration?" asks Natalia whilst throwing a knife at a stuffed fake tribute. It hits the thigh.

"Hearing," I say.

She sighs a smidgen dramatically. "Well, that stinks. Two of us are hearing, two of us are stamina. Not a wide variety."

I shrug because I don't know what to say to that. I don't really know what to say to any of the things they ask me. When Calla asks about family, I say I have a girlfriend, and my mother is pregnant. Then her eyes glaze over and she doesn't talk to anyone for ten minutes, lost in her own little world. And when Luke wants to know what I can do besides swing a mace successfully, I say I don't know because I haven't really tried anything else out yet, causing him to sigh like Natalia and go back to coaching her on how to set up a trap that will catch a smaller animal, like a rabbit. They argue for a while before Natalia stomps off to learn how to make a fishhook, alone.

Silence overtakes Luke, Calla and I, and we all merely listen to the snares instructor. Eventually, Natalia comes back, and she manages to set up a trap without Luke's assistance. Whereas they get into another squabble about who can tie a better knot, Calla says to me, "Don't mind them. You remember that food fight yesterday? They were the ones that started it. It's all harmless, their fighting, just leaves a couple stains behind."

I did remember it. I remember ducking under the table and using my tray as a shield from the impending Capitol food. For some strange reason, I find myself wishing that I was in their alliance yesterday, just so I could've witnessed Luke and Natalia starting it. I sure do need something to cheer me up, right about now.

"Oh," is all I say.

"Yeah…." She stares off at the other end of the training centre and chews her bottom lip. "Do you think about her a lot?" she asks hastily, like she's wanted to say it, but only resurrecting the courage to, and she's spit it out before any second thoughts occur. "Your girlfriend, I mean."

I find it an odd question, but to each their own. "Yes," I tell her, and saying it only makes me miss her more. "I miss Karin. Why?"

"I just, I don't know." Her eyes are still set on a different station across the room, so I can't help but wonder if what she's seeing isn't here at all, if it's somewhere else entirely. "I lost someone I cared about to the Games. Two people, actually. And I was just wondering… you know… what it might've been like in his position… being here… I mean, I _hope_ he thought of me…"

Whatever she's trying to say is barely coherent, yet somehow I pick up on exactly what she's trying to get across. "He probably did," I assure her. "I know I miss Karin, a lot, so if he's anything like me, then…"

Luke and Natalia continue arguing, oblivious that Calla and I just had a small portion of a heart-to-heart talk. As much as one can be held here, in the Hunger Games' training centre, while we all wait to get sent off to our deaths.

"Thanks," she says at last. I just nod in response, remembering once more the way Karin's hand used to feel in mine, the way her hair always smelt of strawberries, and how we'd promised ourselves if either got of us ever got sent into the Games we'd get back to the district by any means, alive.

But I snap out of my reverie. If I want to get home to Karin, then there's one thing I need to concentrate on right now. And that's getting this snare done properly.

**Anna-Marie Schleben's POV (FD3)**

I'm pretty happy with the alliance I have. Farrow and Naller and Sale. Farrow seems to have established himself as the leader of our little group, he doesn't talk much during discussions, but when he does it's to find out what all of our strengths and weaknesses are. Which I'm not unerringly pleased about—but Farrow's a nice guy; I like him, and I wish I'd known him more in District Three so we could've been friends. And I'm certain he's a wonderful leader.

It's just, I'm not used to being in the background so much. I'm not used to letting other people make decisions for me, or having no control over any given situation. And, being the leader, if anyone in our alliance kills each other to push themselves further in the Games, I don't think they'll kill Farrow. Especially when he proves he knows how to handle our four-person alliance, which I'm sure he can do with effortlessness.

And, frankly, it's not like he'd hesitate to kill me if he gets the ultimate opportunity in that arena.

During lunch, I examine him. I've seen him around the school, but only with his core group of friends, never anyone else. A few of my girl friends gush over his shaggy good looks from time to time, but taking into account that I always knew I was going to enter into the Games, I never interested myself in any boys.

They're calling the District One tributes out for the private training sessions. I've seen the girl, Victory, around the training centre, and she looks like some big competition. Not the typical all-muscle career, but she's actually got half a brain that she knows how to use. The boy's the same as the others, though, except somehow he seems quieter, and maybe not as bloodthirsty.

The District Two tributes are a different story. The boy's a tank; my specialty is hand-to-hand combat, but going up against this District Two male would be a suicide mission. The girl always looks nervous and I've never heard her speak before, but according to Sale she's got a bad stutter.

"Can you kill?"

Farrow's question is so unexpected I jump in my seat a little, turning to face my district partner. Said so nonchalantly, like he's announcing he's sporting a new pair of socks, I can see that Naller is also visibly fazed by the inquiry; Sale simly stares at me as Farrow is, expecting an answer. I smooth down my hair to stall. _Can_ I kill? I'm prepared to, I know that twenty-three others must die for me to win, but murdering is a completely dissimilar topic. Either way, I can answer how I want to be perceived. If they see me as weaker, the alliance could let me tag along the whole ways, because I'd be no threat and the moment they want me out of the way they could easily kill me. Unless they kill me from the start because I seem futile.

"If I need to," is my final answer, which may as well be a resounding _yes._ Obviously I'll _need_ to kill. It's the Hunger Games; to get out alive I'll have to take down at least one person at the end, won't I?

Farrow nods curtly and asks the same question to Sale, who says no, and to Naller, who says only if they attacked him first. When the question's directed back at him by me, he stares unblinkingly, straight in my eyes like it's not an effort to make eye contact, saying, "Yes."

I stare back, accepting an unsaid challenge. "Good."

**Angel Kramer's POV (FD8)**

They're the weakest. All of them. The saddest bunch I've ever met, leaving no room for the 'weak' and 'weaker' in my usual comparison. I will literally crush all of them like the twigs they are in that arena, and I will relish in it, no room for mercy or empathy or any other foolish emotion—the brainless sentiments all of my competitors feel. Those feelings singly stand in the way of my conquest. It's me, my weapons, and the destruction I cause that will lead me to the end, allow me to beat everyone else.

Long before I enter the private sessions with the Gamemakers, I catch a glimpse of the District Five girl that had the stupidity to even speak to me the other day, sitting and talking with the two other smallest tributes in the competition. Her eyes meet mine as I pass. She's scared, everyone is, but still, she refuses to break the contact until I turn away to continue to my pathetic alliance's table.

She will regret that.

**A/N****: Sorry if it's short. I'm moving this weekend—not too far away, though, it won't take me long—so if I don't get up to updating as much, that's probably why. Sorry guys. D: But one question: would you all like two or three chapters of interviews?**

**Since**** I didn't get to say what everybody's skills were, I decided I'd list them with their scores below. Note that it doesn't show up to the Capitol like this. Only you guys can see what they actually demonstrated to the Gamemakers.**

**Training Scores:**

**Victory Lux (FD1)**

Score: 8

Skills: Throwing knives, spears and axes.

**Evan Palmer (MD1)**

Score: 8

Skills: Throwing knives, combat with a scimitar.

**Palilalia 'Lia' Kingston**** (FD2)**

Score: 7

Skills: Bow and arrow.

**Kimberly Guerrant (MD2)**

Score: 9

Skills: Hand-to-hand combat.

**Anna-Marie Schleben (FD3)**

Score: 6

Skills: Hand-to-hand combat.

**Farrow Alliyatt (MD3)**

Score: 6

Skills: Throwing knives.

**Peyton Bieda (FD4)**

Score: 8

Skills: Close combat with knives, hand-to-hand combat.

**Dillon LeDron (MD4)**

Score: 11

Skills: Sword fighting.

**Nan Weatherall (FD5)**

Score: 4

Skills: Quickness, tying snares.

**Summer Whitesell (MD5)**

Score: 9

Skills: Throwing knives, bow and arrow.

**Levve Morton (FD6)**

Score: 6

Skills: Throwing spears.

**Mick Revelain (MD6)**

Score: 8

Skills: Throwing knives.

**Natalia DeGuzman (FD7)**

Score: 6

Skills: Throwing knives.

**Trey Lancaster (MD7)**

Score: 8

Skills: Agility, throwing knives.

_Note: Trey has received weaponry knowledge as an alteration with knives as his weapon of choice._

**Angel Kramer (FD8)**

Score: 12

Skills: Throwing knives and spears, bow and arrow, double-sided staff.

**Naller Mahlon Vesteeg (MD8)**

Score: 7

Skills: Throwing Knives

**Bambi Zvoner (FD9)**

Score: 7

Skills: Agility, close combat with knives, tying snares.

**Senn Birch (MD9)**

Score: 7

Skills: Combat with an axe.

**Sale Stride (FD10)**

Score: 3

Skills: Bow and arrow.

**Keed Ogle (MD10)**

Score: 9

Skills: Combat with a mace.

**Luna Night (FD11)**

Score: 7

Skills: Throwing knives and spears.

**Birch Coleo Jernehy (MD11)**

Score: 5

Skills: Throwing spears, bow and arrow.

**Calla Lilly Warbucks (FD12)**

Score: 8

Skills: Bow and arrow.

**Luke Cove (MD12)**

Score: 6

Skills: Throwing knives and spears, tying snares.


	18. Interviews, Part One

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games, or the following characters.**

**A/N: So, here's the deal, guys. My laptop is currently not working. That's where I have all the information about the tributes.**

**I will refer to the tribute forms you all submitted, but with 24 tributes to write about it'll be fairly difficult and a bit time-consuming. Forgive any mistakes I may make regarding your characters for the following few chapters. I WILL correct them.**

**Good news: I've written three new chapters while I was moving. I'll post one each day to make sure I don't have many mistakes considering the characters, but as always, reviews help me post faster. :)**

**Evan Palmer's POV (MD1)**

The career alliance is awkward, to say the least. Kimberly has developed a sort of silent leadership over all of us, besides Angel clearly, but that still doesn't keep Victory's odd outbursts from happening, or Lia from stuttering, or Peyton from rolling her eyes at every sarcastic remark said.

And as for the coaching for the interviews, it's hell. For hours I talk to nobody but the escort, who shows me how to walk in tight, fancy shoes that you'd think belonged to a girl, sit properly without appearing inept, and the real way to answer questions nonchalantly. And then I'm off to the hands of my mentor. My interview approach, according to the mentor, will leave the Capitol audience craving for more of me. Since I'm first, I really do hope so, because by the end of it all I wouldn't be surprised if everybody just forgot all about the male tribute from District One.

Finally, after a day of pain, I walk on stage wearing leather boots, black pants, and a shirt that is buttoned-up only halfway. Last year's tributes from One went straight for the bloodthirsty approach. But that's not me.

"Evan Palmer!" Glendlin Welps, the interviewer, says over the shouts of the Capitol people. I smile, place my arms casually on the armrests, and pretend that I don't notice any of it. If I did acknowledge it I'm afraid I'd end up feeling overwhelmed.

"Glendlin," I say with a polite grin and a short nod as the two of us wait for the crowd to die down. When it does, I go, "A pleasure."

"As to you, Evan. You're looking smashing in those leather shoes."

The smile doesn't diminish. "Thank you, Glendlin."

She tosses her signature, knee-length purple hair over her shoulder, ogling at me with matching colored eyes. Somewhere inside, I shudder. The Capitol people are weird. But if I don't love what they love, or show that I don't, then I won't have sponsors to live off of. So I imagine I don't find her dark purple pupils creepy as she asks, "What's your strategy, Evan?"

Unlike some of the interviewers in the past, Glendlin isn't at all interested in making us tributes look good for Panem. She's attested that what she wants is fame and fortune, and if she can get any tribute to reveal a secret that will make her ratings go even higher, then she'll go to extremely long lengths to do so, no matter what toll it may have on us. Which is why I answer her question warily. "Outlast everyone else here," I tell her.

A few people in the audience laugh, but Glendlin smirks, nearing impatience. "Oh, c'mon, Evan. Looking at your competitors, anyone would assume a smart guy like you would have a more advanced strategy than that."

To be honest, I don't. Not really anyways. I'm a career—careers kill or be killed, and more often than not it's the former. But I smile secretively, like I'm hiding something anyhow, winking half at the awaiting Capitol people and half at Glendlin. "You'll have to find out about that later, won't you?"

Glendlin winks back. I can see that her eyelid is heavily coated with deep plum sparkles. "All right, Evan Palmer. If you won't let us in on your strategy, how about telling us who you are exactly?"

I hesitate, but make it look like I'm thinking deeply and meaningfully, a useful tip from my mentor. She wants to know who I am? I'm sure she thinks I'll be dying in a matter of days, and yet she doesn't care. She'll go on with her perfect life while I fight to my death, because that's what I've been raised to do. I've been raised to accept it as it is—if you can't beat them, join them.

"I'm your average guy," I say, deciding to go with exactly what I'm thinking. "I'm nothing particularly special. I want to win for everyone I love and I, sure, but that doesn't define me. What's defines me is me. You can't figure me out, sitting there and examining my flaws and assets, because I'm deeper than that."

Glendlin props her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands, a slightly confused look on her face as if she's scrutinizing what to say to that. "So what's under the cover, then? What's so deep?"

Telling them that I'm not as lethal as the others, not as bloodthirsty, would be a total mistake. They don't want to see people afraid of murder, afraid of death. They want to see the brave, determined heroes that will take down anything and anyone that dare stand in their way to triumph. So I sit up straighter and flash Glendlin that secretive smile once more. "Sometimes words are more powerful than weapons. The rest about yours truly, you'll have to find that out when I'm in that arena." I compliment my words with another little wink.

"Ahh," says Glendlin, drumming her fingers on the leather couch she's seated on. "The mysterious approach? That won't get you too far, Evan Palmer."

I let a diminutive calm rush over the audience, over Glendlin; I let them stay on the edge of their seats for my next words. Then, slowly, I lean in towards Glendlin and say in a whisper, like I'm unaware that what I'm going to say is about to be broadcasted to all of Panem, "We'll see about that."

My buzzer rings. Glendlin is scowling, disapproving that I didn't give anything away, that no chaos has been caused like last year when the girl District One tribute started ripping the couch up after Glendlin questioned if she was strong enough to win. People in the Capitol, like the completely purple one sitting before me, live off that kind of chaos. For them, chaos creates contentment. But I will not give them that pleasure.

I sit down and Victory takes the stage, grinning part maliciously and part slyly. She's proven to me these past few days that she isn't just the quiet, petite girl that traipsed around the training centre back in the district with only a few close friends.

She's proved that she's competition. They all have.

**Dillon LeDron's POV (MD4)**

How did I get that eleven? Determination. Passion to win. At least, that's what my mentor says.

I am not to reveal that I'm wonderful with a sword. I am not to even give a subtle hint at it. If Glendlin asks me, I'm supposed to launch into a story about how sick my sister is, and that these Games are her last chance at life. If I win, then she wins, too, and my father doesn't have to deal with the pain of losing the only people he has left. If I lose, she dies, I die, and I'm certain that a part of my father will go along with us.

I watch as the four tributes ahead of me get on the stage. All of them are my supposed allies. Evan: strong, noble, unintentionally charming. Victory: in it to win it, an underestimated District One-er. Kimberly: tough, intimidating, and nothing else. Lia: also underestimated, but just as nervous as a Twelve, being slightly mysterious in her answers.

And then, there's me. I take to the stage hoping that my knees, which are shaking and hitting each other, don't draw too much attention to themselves, while forcing a smile and waving to the people who wave to me. Glendlin grins at me, revealing teeth that are so white looking straight at them resembles looking directly into the sun. She stands up and gives me a hug and the two of us take a seat on our separate couches.

We talk briefly about my alliance, which I tell her is strong and I know that one of us _will_ pull through and win the Games. A little about my time in the Capitol, and I gush dramatically over the food. And, at last, the question that I had been praying she'd ask: "So what's behind that eleven you scored, Dillon?"

I settle back in my chair, unfumbling the words in my mind so they come out just right. "Glendlin, I don't just want to win." It's rehearsed, yes, but it doesn't mean that it isn't true. "I need to."

Her lilac-colored eyebrows draw together in the middle of her forehead. "Why's that?"

I suck in a deep breath. Here we go. "My family, we've never been the richest in the district. I wouldn't even go as far as saying our wealth is somewhere in the middle. And my sister, Star, she's come down with this horrible disease that leaves her so weak and so fragile, and the doctors have told us that unless we get her the proper treatment, she's only got a couple months left in her."

The entire room has gone silent. Including Glendlin, who's usually perking at the chance to get her greedy Capitol hands on a story like this one. I use their stillness as encouragement to keep going, my voice shaking and as unstable as my knees had been.

"Since we can't afford the medicine, the only thing that can help her, I came here. When and if I win my family won't have to struggle anymore. My sister will heal, and my father won't have to worry about taking care of her. So I'm not here for the fame or the glory… though," I add, laughing hollowly, "I guess those things would be nice to have. But mainly I'm here for my sister, and I won't forget that. I didn't get that eleven for me, I did it for her. So she can grow up and accomplish her own dreams and feats that she wouldn't be able to do otherwise. And, so maybe I'm risking everything for either anything anyone could ever want or merely nothing at all, but I know that if I wasn't sitting here, right now, then every single day for the rest of my life I would regret it. Because, what if? What if I could've saved her, and was just too cowardly to do it? I'd rather go down fighting for someone I love than watch them die. I won't, ever, take easy way out, when the right thing to do is the opposite."

For a moment everyone in the crowd, every tribute and even Glendlin, is noiseless. I wonder for that moment if maybe I went too far with my speech, if it came across as if I was angry, but, all of a sudden, someone starts to clap. And soon more people are joining in, standing up and clapping and cheering, and Glendlin is shaking my hand as the buzzer signaling my three minutes are up rings in my ears, and I walk off the stage and sit down in my chair but the thunderous round of applause doesn't cease.

"Good job, Dillon," Peyton whispers. "You'll be a hard act to follow, y'know that?"

Still a bit stunned from the liveliness of the Capitol audience, I cast a hopefully uplifting smile in her direction. "You'll do great, Pey."

She gives my shoulder a squeeze, standing up from her seat when Glendlin shouts out her name and the clapping seems to only increase. In a softer voice, she says, "You deserve it more than I do, Dillon. I hope you get home."

And then she's gone.

**Bambi Zvoner's POV (FD9)**

I stare at my reflection. My hair is glossy and luscious, my eyes are big and round, and the apples of my cheeks are brushed with a pale, pink, rosy color. My dress feels too tight, too extravagant, too sparkly, too revealing, you name it. This isn't me: this dress or this person staring back through the mirror. This isn't me at all.

"You look brilliant!" my prep team exclaims, while my stylist with the trailing hair looks on and admires her work. I tug awkwardly at the hem of my dress, obliging a smile. I can barely move in this thing and she expects me to answer questions that will determine if I'll have people supporting me in a life or death game? I'm not on that stage yet and I'm already sweating. Profusely. Everywhere.

"Gosh," I say, hoping against hope that none of my sarcasm is evident. "Thanks, you guys."

"You are welcome," says the stylist, clasping her hands across her too-flat stomach. "Make the dress work for you."

Make the dress work for me? I actually remember telling them that I wanted to go for a fierce approach, somehow, and here they've put me in a revealing dress. Honestly. I'm not my namesake; I will never be, not before, during, or after the Games. Well, if there is an after for me.

"I'll try." It's the most promising thing I can say without lying. Looking down at my bare feet, I wiggle my toes. "I, uh, I have shoes, right?"

The stylist smiles what is a smile for her, which most people would probably consider a plain pursing of lips and raising of eyebrows. "Of course. I almost forgot." She snaps once above her right shoulder. "Chilly, the heels."

One of the members of the prep team rushes off into a closet and emerges with a pair of glittery golden shoes, the same color of my dress. They would be nice, possibly, if it wasn't for the dramatic eight-inch heel sprouting from the back, and the way the sole of the shoe is nearly vertical. I swallow as Chilly places them proudly down in front of me and steps back, and the three prep team members and my stylist wait for me to slip them on.

"Well," I say eventually. "Those are high, aren't they?"

"Exactly the appearance I was going for!" She beams broadly.

"Yes, well, see… I don't know if I'll be able to walk in them… maybe we'd be safer with a pair of lace-up sneakers or something…"

"But honey." Chilly places a hand on my shoulder and frowns. "Imagine what they'll do for your legs."

"Make them sore for tomorrow?" I inquire, huffing hair out of my eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure_ that'll_ do me a lotta good."

The four of them gasp, looking insulted, and the stylist goes, "You don't _like _it?"

There's a long, pregnant pause. The three of them stare and wait for a response of some kind, and so I instantly force out a weak laugh and wave my hand in the air dismissively, pushing one of my feet into one of the shoes. My foot protests immediately. "I love them! Don't—ow—don't worry about it!"

They all sigh with relief and Chilly even laughs along with me. But as soon as both my feet are in the shoes I know I've made a mistake. Who cares if I hurt a couple feelings? These shoes aren't going to do me any good, I'll be wobbling all over the stage and my muscles'll be screaming tomorrow. But they're guiding me away and out of the prepping room too fast, before I can say another word, the lot of them bubbling about how fantastic I look. I have to rest an elbow on Chilly for support as we walk, and when I'm placed in a chair beside Senn, I say quietly so nobody else can hear, "I can't walk, Senn."

He takes a glance at my feet and sniggers. "Oh dear, Bambi."

I glimpse at his shoes. Simple brown leather and square-toed. "Oh dear yourself. You suck. Tell me how I'm supposed to walk up there in these?"

"To be frank…" He flicks his head to the side and a strand of hair falls out of his eyes. "I dunno if you can."

"So, what?" I say, even more softly, because the tributes are now being called up to the stage. The boy from One sits in the couch across from the interviewer Glendlin Welps, giving her a charming grin. "I go up there barefoot? I can't in this stupid _DRESS_!" I pull it down so it reaches my knees, but then I have to pull it back up so the neckline doesn't plunge so low. It's a never-ending cycle.

"Your dress is quite nice, I think."

I stare at him. "You wouldn't be saying that if you were wearing it."

He leans back in his seat and examines the girl from One, who is now getting interviewed by Glendlin. He's done a lot of that the past few days, in fact, the whole examining bit. "Touché, Bambs."

I smile at the nickname he's given me and lean back in my own chair. Tributes get on the stage, then they leave to applause while Senn and I look on and make comments about everyone. The girl from Four has a rant about how the Games will never turn her into what the Capitol wants her to be, and something about how her parents used to be despicable people. The boy from Four is on the verge of tears, and leaves with the audience in the same state. The guy from Six is hostile and unmoving, I would say that nobody'd remember him except so much hate is boiling inside of him I can't help but wonder how malicious he'll turn out to be. The girl from Eight carries on with the bloodthirsty thing, describing in vivid detail how she will murder every single one of us. Luckily for us she gets up to Senn before the buzzer rings. Senn, apparently, will be stabbed through the heart ten times and will feel every stab and I will get my limbs torn from my body. I don't take it too seriously. I mean, she can't kill _all of us,_ can she?

I'm called after Senn appears as a likable guy for all of Panem. I clamber to the edge of my seat and stand, steadying myself for a second. Or at least, I attempt at it. Standing up is difficult with the short dress and the high shoes, and my district partner assists me out of my chair, but then sits right back down. I put on a smile, pull down the hem of my dress down to my knees once more, pull it back up, and take a step—

And fall.


	19. Interviews, Part Two

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games or the following characters.**

**Victory Lux's POV (FD1)**

Evan does the whole charming, you-won't-find-out-anything-about-me-until-the-Games-start thing. A little overplayed? Yes. But do I really care what my district partner does? No.

"I heard you're named after someone, Victory," says Glendlin, shifting one leg over the other. "Elaborate, for us?"

I grin, just a tiny bit, before saying, "Yes. My grandfather, Victor, won the Games years and years ago. He beat the others within only days, and I hope to do the same. No point in prolonging death, now is there?"

She nods enthusiastically; seemingly glad to get more out of me than she did from my district partner. "So you're going to be a fighter?"

"Not just a fighter," I say, tucking the one strand of blonde hair that has fallen out of the elaborate, braided up-do I'm sporting behind my ear. "One of the best fighters the Capitol has ever seen."

Glendlin squints at me, her obviously altered lips forming a thin line across her face. "With an eight in training? Surely you know that an eight isn't all too uncommon amongst District One tributes. Or District Twos, for that matter. Or District Fours, and this year even a portion of District Eight has shown us that they stand a much bigger chance than, well, you. How do you know you can follow in your grandfather's large footsteps, when yours look _ever _so small?"

Upon reflex my eyes narrow and fists clench. I'm so used to being told I can't do it, I can't win the Games, I don't have the skill like the others that train in my district, and I guess that that doesn't change here, no matter what level of fake confidence I put up to shield myself from it. But if Glendlin thinks I'll be tearing this couch to shreds like last year's female tribute, she's wrong.

"You know, Glendlin…" I take a couple deep breaths, unclench my fists, and am somehow able to plaster on an ear-to-ear smile. "I'm glad you think that. I hope that when I come round for my victory tour I'll be able to shove those words right back down your throat." She opens her mouth to retaliate, but I cut her off. The venom in my voice is concealed with artificial cheerfulness. "And then, optimistically, you will choke on them."

For anyone that's sitting farther away from Glendlin than I am, it'd appear as if she isn't fazed in the littlest by my words. But with only feet between us, I can see the single bead of perspiration sliding down her temple, and the way she's wringing her hands together over and over again, wiping her palms off coolly and almost unnoticeably on her purple outfit. I'm not a vicious person, I don't make people squirm in their seats and normally I don't want to, but seeing that I've made someone who's doubted me clearly nervous gives me a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach, if only for a half of a second.

"_I seeeeee_," Glendlin says, not making eye contact. I blink innocently a few times as she goes on. "So, erm, Victory. How are you enjoying your time in the Capitol?"

**Senn Birch's POV (MD9)**

I like to think that I have a mildly good judge of character. Like how I knew Bambi would make a great, loyal ally for me. Or how the minute it was evident that Bambi didn't like Luna, I knew it wasn't for a personal reason, because Luna may be outspoken and somewhat pushy sometimes, but she's going to be a good ally, too. And Levve, the last ally we've got, she's reserved. She doesn't speak much. But I know she does a lot of thinking. Sort of like me.

With Glendlin, I'm not sure how she ever got the job as an interviewer. She's not friendly in the least, I'm positive that anything not concerning her isn't in her top hundred priorities, but I'll give her the fact that she's a good actress. When I spill my guts about my father being a morphling addict, she sticks out her bottom lip and pretends to care, but then Bambi trips and falls and I can just see that Glendlin's suppressing laughter.

So 'course I get right back up to help Bambi on her own two feet again, and she hands me the two painful-looking heels she formerly had on before walking barefoot up to Glendlin. People applaud after the general surprise of a tribute tripping during her interview washes over, and, looking at the big screens that give close-ups of the tributes and Glendlin, I'm able to tell that the tips of Bambi's ears are burning a bright tomato red.

The first subject Glendlin brings up, no shocker, is the chariot rides. Just like with my own interview. _How did it happen? Who's fault was it, precisely? You _were_ scared, weren't you? Did you mean to stop the horses, because I'm sure you would've been pleased to see two of your competitors die before the Games have even begun?_

But I whisked through them all as smoothly as possible. The horses weren't trained properly; they just went nuts from being cooped up for so long. Yes, I was scared, but I suppose anyone would've been considering I was being dragged at seriously high speeds by two wild horses, and no trainer was readily there to help. I did, in fact, mean to stop the horses, because although maybe it would've been nice to rid the arena of two competitors, I almost certainly would have gone along with them.

She directs the same questions at Bambi, who brushes them off and brings the attention back to herself without a blink of an eye, and I almost envy her confidence. I was likable in my own interview, but reserved, observant, like always. Whereas with Bambi, you wouldn't even know that she had tripped ten seconds ago if it wasn't for the reminder of her bare feet, and the high heels sitting on my lap as I fidget anxiously in my seat.

I just want to get out of here. I'm tired. I want sleep. A last, peaceful sleep before I'm sent off to death.

She walks away to a considerable amount of applause. More than me, I think, but not by too much. And it doesn't take long for Keed Ogle of District Ten's turn to get questioned by the infamous Glendlin to arrive, and for him and his burly self to walk up onto the stage.

"Good job," I tell Bambi.

"Thanks. Back a'cha." She returns my grin and we do the knuckle-punch double high-five handshake we've created.

Then I hand her her high heels but she only slips them under her chair and out of sight rather than on her feet. I can't really blame her, though. I wouldn't want to have to wear those things before being sent into a competition where you have to rely on your physical condition for life, either.

**Lia Kingston's POV (FD2)**

I'm not in love with my alliance. I don't like the Ones, because the boy is nice but determined, and the girl is very smart and lethal. My district partner Kimberly is just scary. The Fours are okay, I suppose: I like Dillon, but Peyton is too much like some of the girls back in my district for us to be wonderful friends. Summer from Five, he doesn't say a lot to anybody. But he got a real great training score. And then there's Angel, and she's, well, _Angel_.

But the feeling seems mutual. They act as if I'm not there. And once when I somehow summoned enough courage to talk to Summer he just turned his head and started up a conversation with Evan, leaving me to push around my carrots and peas with my fork and keep my head down for the rest of lunch.

It was sort of the same back in my district, and I hated it just as much back then as I do now, but it isn't like there's a whole lot I can do about it. I wasn't chosen, I _volunteered._ Me, Lia Kingston, the last person anyone would expect to be heading into the Games to represent District Two, a _volunteer_. I was even shocked at what I did. But I can't take it back; I'm here now, so I may as well push through it with the dignity that I have left.

Which, truthfully, isn't much.

"What's your favorite thing about the Capitol?" Glendlin asks me in the course of my interview.

My eyes scan the hundreds, maybe thousands of people, sitting around me, and I think of the millions that must be watching through their televisions in the safety of their own homes. My heart beats, my hands sweat, and I push a chunk of wispy blondish hair out of my face before replying, "The foods g-good."

A couple people laugh.

I scratch at one ankle with the other. I know I only must have a minute and a half or so left, but that doesn't settle my uneasy stomach.

Glendlin feeds off my nervousness. "You're scared of that arena, aren't you?"

I don't take long to reply to that one, because I know that if I appear weak up here, the sponsor gifts will be flying straight to my allies, and not to me. So I'm able to draw a long, comforting breath and say, without a single stutter, "Not scared, just anxious. I want to get home as soon as I can."

Feeling like giving myself a pat on the back, I smile a minuscule smile and sink deeper into the fluffy couch. How I can be at ease, not one stammer pushing through that sentence, with millions and millions of people watching my every move—

Okay, so maybe I shouldn't've thought that.

The rest of my answers have double the amount of stutters than usual, and as much as I try to resist crossing and uncrossing my legs uncomfortably, attempting to find a position that won't make me so alert of the whole lot, my surroundings keep flooding back and I can't get the intimidating stares of the Capitol people off my mind. I mean, how many sets of eyes must be analyzing me right now? Everything I do can count against me or for me, and as of now, most of what I do seems to go against me.

"It was nice speaking to you, Lia," Glendlin tells me unconvincingly before my buzzer rings.

**Farrow Alliyatt's POV (MD3)**

At the beginning of all of this, back in the Justice Building and on the train heading to the Capitol, Anna-Marie and I got along well. Really well. We discussed the other districts, picking Naller from Eight out of the others to align ourselves with from the start, and when Sale from Ten found her way into our small group nobody protested. Maybe Sale doesn't seem too good with weapons, or anything else for that matter, but if that's true then she's going to have to lean on us for support more than ever, probably concluding in not breaking up the alliance until she has to.

But now Anna-Marie and I are distant. I don't know what it is, or whose at fault, but we are. We don't stay up late like we did the first two days in the Capitol, discussing things such as whether we should run for the Cornucopia or not. We're just _there. _We're no longer friends, we're acquaintances.

It could be because I'm the main leader of our alliance. I don't mean to sound conceited, I'm not like that, but it's just simply true. Sale and Naller have realized it; I've already handed out jobs and established a schedule for night guard duty and everything. And Anna-Marie has nodded and agreed, but as if she's only doing so because it's obligated, and she fears doing something differently will cause us to turn on her.

At school, with my friends, it was never like this. I did decide what we'd do most of the time and all of that, and I suppose I was a leader back then, but never had someone _hated_ me for it. And I mean, what else could Anna-Marie hate me for? I have control of our alliance, and she doesn't like it. That's that.

I'm too distracted by the fact that she may be plotting to kill me in my sleep that in my interview I've no doubt I appear as far away as I've drifted from my district partner. I don't seem to have too much of an affect on anyone. My mentor slaps me on the back later, telling me the silent approach was a good improvise from whatever we'd planned earlier when I clearly wasn't paying attention, but I can't really hear him. My thoughts are too clouded.

It's the last night before the Games, I realize, as I'm lying there on my bed and staring up at the strips of moonlight dancing across the ceiling. Tomorrow, I'll fear for my life. I won't have downy comforters to hide behind. Or Capitol food to relish in. It'll just be me, Naller, Sale and Anna-Marie, fighting to stay alive.

I should sleep, but I can't. I get out of bed and tiptoe down the hall to the elevator, unsure of where I'm going but not really caring, pressing the very top button on the panel. I feel myself swoop up and away from the third floor, up up up, until finally the doors slide open.

I'm on a roof. There're no more than a couple stars above me, most probably hidden by the Capitol's lights. A half-moon hangs in the sky. And in front of me bright buildings tower over basically everything.

I go and lean on the railing that separates me from the city. I'm just wondering if anybody else has found out about this place when I hear someone say from behind me, "Can't sleep either, huh?"

Calla, the girl from Twelve, smiles weakly at me from the other side of the roof, and walks over gradually, as if she has all the time in the world. "It's nice up here," she says softly. "Quiet. A good place to think and get away. If you could see the more of the sky it'd be _really really _nice, but it's the Capitol. How much can we expect from them?"

I stare at her for a moment, at the way she doesn't seem to care that tomorrow she may die, possibly at my hands, while her blonde hair moves with the wind and her eyes are shut tight. "Why would they, uh, why would they let us up here?" is the first thing I say to her, because by the way she speaks about it one would assume she's been here more than once.

Abruptly she opens her eyes, takes off her shoe and throws it off the edge of the roof. And before I can ask her what the heck was that for, I see the small black thing zooming back up so fast I can't dodge it in time. It smacks me right in the face and then plops onto the cement below me.

Calla giggles lightly. "Woops. Sorry, I wasn't aiming at you. But they put a force field around this place, see? If someone tried to jump they'd come right back up."

I rub at the spot on my forehead where the shoe'd hit me, and Calla puts the thing back on her foot. "Oh," I comment. "Makes sense."

"Yeah." She closes her eyes again and breathes in the breeze. "It's funny, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"We're talking to each other like we're friends or something, and I bet you tomorrow you won't mind killing me."

Frowning, I say, "Why do you think that?"

She sighs, and opens her eyes to stare harshly at me. "C'mon, District Three. You're not quite a career, but you'll kill like one if it means getting home."

"And you won't?"

After a brief pause she breaks eye contact with me to look back at the extravagant buildings. "I won't kill like a career. I will never become something the Capitol loves. I'm not going to lose myself in these Games, no matter how hard my back is pushed into a corner and how many knives are pressed against my throat."

She's worried about _losing herself?_ That's what she can't sleep over? I'm worried about _staying alive_. As much as it would be nice to have Calla's thoughts right now, I can't, because I know I'll do a lot of things that aren't at all like the real me if it'll mean getting home to my parents and my little brother, Sam. It may be selfish, but that's the way the Games are played.

And I think that's exactly what Calla means.

"I won't kill you," I promise her so suddenly it surprises even me. "If it comes down to it, I won't kill you."

"Well… thanks, Three. I don't have any intentions of killing you either."

We shake on it, and then I retreat back to floor three, questioning if I just made the biggest mistake I could've.

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who is reviewing and reading this. :)**


	20. Sponsoring

**Not a chapter yet, because I have to get the guts to post it, considering the Games are starting and ****I had to write people off and everything...**

**Plus, I ****wanna read Mockingjay. :D So it'll be up later today.**

**Anyways, I'm just going to be covering sponsoring here. Nothing too complicated, but I thought it deserved a whole chapter rather than a small author's note at the end of one.**

**Everyone can be a sponsor to whoever they like, but you can only sponsor one person per chapter. Just leave in a review who you'd like to send what gift to (even if that gift isn't listed below), and if it's eligible based on the following point system (if you can call it that), then it'll go through, eventually.**

**You all start off with 100 points, just by leaving that review saying who you wanna sponsor. If you reviewed the chapter before that one, you get an additional 200 points. And every time you review without sponsoring somebody (we don't want too many items flooding in, after all) you gain 100 points. So if someone is in a life-threatening condition and they need a 'large' item to stay alive, then you may have to save up. However, even if those points build, you have to start all over after you sponsor someone. Even if you didn't use up all the built up points. **

**Small Items (available for 100 points) include:**

**Small food (a loaf of bread, canteen of water, an apple, etc.)**

**Small tools (string, matches, etc.)**

**Small medicine (bandages, tape, small painkiller, etc.)**

**Standard Items (available for 300 points) include:**

**Standard food (plate of cheese and crackers, pot of broth, big canteen of water, etc.)**

**Standard tools (a dull hammer and nails, plastic poncho, protective gloves, etc.)**

**Standard medicine (a sling, sleep serum, etc.)**

**Standard weapons (****a pocketknife, vial of poison, extra arrows, etc.)**

**Large Items (available for 500 points) include:**

**Large food (types of meat, fruit and veggie basket, a picnic, etc.)**

**Large tools (a tent, ****insulated sleeping bag, etc.)**

**Large medicine (morphling, antidote to poison, etc.)**

**Large weapons (a bow and five arrows, any type of blade, a pickaxe, etc.)**


	21. The Games Begin

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or these characters.**

**A/N: Before we get into things, I want to thank a few people for helping out with the arena, the mutts, and all of the gory details. A big thanks to Realityshowfan, ForeverAdrian and Claratrix LeChatham for helping out with the arena! Whether you submitted ideas or mutts, it really helped me out, so thank you. :)**

**And, just so you all know, I felt horrible killing off characters so early. If I killed your character (or one that you l-o-v-e-d) off in the bloodbath, I'm sorry. I picked these people before I wrote the reapings at random, and changing them would've been… difficult. Choosing them alone was difficult. So, I'm sorry. D: **

**Luna Night's POV (FD11)**

Sixty seconds.

Sixty seconds to find my allies, grasp my surroundings and pick a direction to run in.

My metal plate rises from the bright room holding my stylist to a dim, cave-like setting. To my right is Angel (joy), to my left is Senn, and in front of me gleams the large Cornucopia, full of weapons.

I catch Senn's eye in less than a moment, and he jerks his head abruptly behind me, where a dark tunnel branches out from this circular room. I can't see beyond the entranceway, but I nod anyways and take a better look around. There are five other tunnels, all shooting out in different directions, and I'm sure each has a creative sort of death behind them. Whatever that is, it has to be better than what Angel has cooked up for me, so I swivel cautiously on the metal plate and position myself in a sprinting stance towards the tunnel.

I count down the remaining seconds in my mind, my heart thudding three times for each number.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three…

Two—

One.

The gong sounds.

And I run.

**Senn Birch's POV (MD9)**

Before running after Luna I dash ten feet in front of me, scoop up a packet of matches, a plastic poncho and what looks like a stick of dynamite, and am about to turn around when I find myself face-to-face with Angel. She's a little taller than me, and as much as I try to bring myself up to her level, to face her, I can't.

But she doesn't have a weapon in her hand, I realize. And my allies—Luna was right there, right beside me. If she sees that I'm in trouble maybe she could attack Angel from behind or—

The District Eight swings her arm at my head, which breaks me out of my thoughts, her hand balled up in a tight fist, and she lands a blow on my right temple. I fall to my left on my hands and knees, black dots taking over my vision for a couple seconds, and, all at once, Angel's interview comes back to me. She said she was going to kill me by stabbing me in the heart, ten times, and that I'd somehow feel each stab. But she doesn't have a blade, right? There's no way—

I kick my legs out to try and fault her, but she jumps in the knick of time to avoid it, and her feet stomp and crush into my legs so hard I hear a sickening crunch and feel harsh throbs of pain coursing through my leg. She isn't even that heavy, how could she have—

Her fist finds my head again, and I try to keep myself upright on the palms of my hands. For my mother, who's watching this back at home, in our small little house. For Hatch, who was here before me, battling to his own death. For everyone I know, back in District Nine, who must be flinching every time Angel gets a good injury on me.

Physically, I have to be stronger than her. I have to be. She may be taller, but I know that being from the hunting district gives me a tiny portion of an edge against someone that mends clothing, it has to.

Her punches and kicks knock all the air from my lungs, and I can't breathe properly. My hands fumble around for the items I picked up earlier, the poncho and the matches and the dynamite, but all I scrape across is hard, cold, rocky ground. Nothing that could help me in the least with fending off Angel.

"SENN!" I hear someone shout. I can't see anything that's going on around me. Just that gravelly floor, blurring from my vision. "SENN!"

The weight of Angel is swiftly lifted off of me, and I see her tumble out of sight to my left, lifting up dirt in a whirl as she goes. Who's the other person, the one trying to take her on, though? Long hair—

It's Bambi.

Shakily, I push myself off of the ground. Blood trickles from some cut on my face into my mouth, and I spit it out fervently. My right leg is still pulsating in pain, my bone must be broken, so I pull myself along with my left, while my right drags uselessly behind me. The scuffle with Angel and Bambi has resulting with Angel having the upper hand—which isn't much of a surprise—and out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of red. The stick of dynamite.

I hear footsteps approaching me from behind, so I lunge for the dynamite and narrowly avoid a haze of white-blonde hair and wild blue eyes. It registers, somewhere, that this must be the District One girl. But I disregard that and wrap my hand around the dynamite and the small packet of matches, my only available weapons, still unsure of what I'm really going to do—I may wipe-out Angel, but Bambi'll be gone too—and graze a match against the ground. A small spark lights up in the dim cavern, and I'm just processing how I'm going to go about this without killing off my district partner when District One pounces on me, releasing the match from my grip with a grunt.

The tip of the dynamite touches the small ignition of flame, and I can't react—

Everything fades away in a world of red, orange, and, finally, black.

**Victory Lux's POV (FD1)**

I'm in between Evan and Dillon on my silver disk. Beyond Evan is Summer, and after Dillon is Peyton. This situation is entirely useless. This is supposed to be a bloodbath, and killing off my allies isn't going to be helpful in any way at all.

I can see everyone in our normal career alliance within near feet of me, besides Angel, before the gong goes off. I race past everyone in a flurry to find her, help her with killing off tributes, as much as the thought of that makes me shudder. But after my interview I feel like I've got a lot to prove.

My fellow allies and a couple others that I don't care about race to the Cornucopia, but I still can't see Angel. I want to get into the real action, show everyone who's doubted me that I can do this, none of that fooling around at the Cornucopia stuff.

My feet pound against the hard ground. There are tunnels everywhere—I count six in total as I run round the small, spherical cave—and I'm just wondering what lies behind them all when I catch the sight of Angel. She's getting tackled by the girl from Nine, and I increase my speed, because the Eleven girl looks like she's about to step in at any second and the Nine's district partner is standing up as if to help her, too. The Nine won't even see me coming, I think as I use my heels to propel myself, up into the air, arms outstretched for the boy—

He moves before I make contact, and I sprawl onto the ground with my nails digging into rocks. I look up through wisps of blonde hair that've come undone from the braid my stylist put it in—efficient and attractive—and puff them from my eyes so I can see better. Angel and Bambi are still in a scuffle, but… Senn is his name, right? Well whatever he's doing, or trying to do, I can't tell from here…

A flame flickers, and I can't stop myself from lunging instantaneously. I saw dynamite lying all over the floor earlier, and if that's fire—

I pin him to the ground and twist his wrist so the match he's holding flies out of his reach. Unluckily, that match catches onto the dynamite, and a noise so loud it's as if there is none explodes in my ears. I feel myself fly backwards, off of Senn and onto my back.

And then, silence. And pain. I can still see everybody around me; I can see Angel flying through the air herself and Luna pulling Bambi off her feet, dragging her down into a tunnel and away from Senn's lifeless body. Bambi seems to be putting up a fight, though I couldn't care less about what's going on with them. There's a splitting pain in my ears. A burning sensation tingling my face, my neck and my chest. What is this?

The girl from Six runs by me and assists Eleven in pulling Nine to safety, but I stay where I am, on my back, on the ground. It's odd, being able to see everything, but unable to hear, especially after a few days of being able to hear the littlest thing.

Everyone's panicking. Evan rushes up to me and touches my neck, which hurts, and it hurts more when I see that his fingers are coated in my blood. I try to speak, but it's difficult, since I can't hear myself, so I stop trying.

My eyelids are heavy. Droopy, even. I feel Evan shake me, he's screaming something, but I'm so tired and I just want some sleep. Plus, the ache across my upper body isn't letting up. The Fours are standing above me too, now, Dillon joining Evan and shaking me and shouting things in my face, which I consider quite rude, and I try to tell them so, but they give me a strange look and don't stop lifting my shoulders up and down roughly.

But now, the pain is too much, I can't stand it, so I close my eyes in a feeble try to block it out…

I just want some sleep…

**Evan Palmer's POV (MD1)**

Victory's eyes close. I shut my own for a second, paying a silent respect for my district partner, and then lay her gently on the ground, brush dirt off my pants, and stand up.

"THEY ESCAPED!"

Me, Summer, the Twos and the Fours all spin to see Angel stomping towards us, a huge gash stretching across her hairline that she doesn't seem to notice. The cave is void of any other tributes.

"THAT DAMNED EXPLOSION!" Her gaze fixes on Victory, who's dead on the ground, her face arranged in what would be a peaceful position if it weren't for the way her face, neck and chest are all smothered in blood, completely missing skin. She walks over and kicks the skinless shoulder. "SCARED THEM ALL AWAY! ONLY CASUALTIES WE'VE GOT ARE HER—" She kicks Victory again "—AND HIM!" She stalks over to the dead District Nine boy and gives him a good strike, too, that probably would hurt as much as hell if he were still alive.

Lia opens her mouth, but then shuts it, too afraid to speak.

"Look…" I say slowly, for all of my allies who won't, and Angel turns to glare at me. A double-sided staff is in one of her hands; spikes on the end glittering somehow even in the lack of light. The twelve she received in training is still embedded fresh in my brain, so I decide not to push it. "We'll find them. All of them. There's no need for—"

A scream so shrill I see both the Twos jump exits from Angel's throat, echoing off the cave walls. She raises the double-sided staff above her head and swings it, and Peyton yells from behind me and grabs hold of the back of my T-shirt, pulling me out of the way, but the spikes still get a good chunk of my skin off my abdomen as they pass by. Immediately, the wounds begin to burn. Badly. I fall to my knees and grasp at the cuts. They don't look very deep, and yet they seem to be almost sizzling—

"I'll save you the trouble of asking," Angel says. "Only because I'd like to be the one to make your death official, District One. There's poison on the spikes."

The smell of crisping flesh wafts into my nostrils, and I recoil, coughing and sputtering and wanting more than ever to escape this odor. Peyton and Dillon are kneeling beside me on the ground, but it feels like I've swallowed a stick of ignited dynamite and it's killing me from the inside out. I gasp for breath, longingly, but it doesn't subdue the pain.

"He's our ally!" Peyton stands up, but Dillon stays seated beside me. "How the _hell_ could you?"

"Don't be a fool, Four," she says calmly. "Death is the only option for people like that."

My vision starts to become foggy with thick, dark clouds, and the searing in my abdomen worsens. I don't scream in pain though, I won't let Angel know that she's won.

"You're a MONSTER!" I hear Peyton yell, but I can't see anything anymore. Just those clouds, and discreet images of light, floating around behind my eyelids. Is this what death feels like? Is this how Victory felt, seconds ago?

More shouting and yelps of pain ring in my ears, and I wish I could say something, anything to stop it, the yelling and the pain and maybe resurrect the strength just to be able to stand up for a moment, half a second, to kill Angel. She doesn't deserve to win; she's just like them, the Capitol people, and the Gamemakers, and Glendlin Welps…

The blackness defeats me.

**Dillon LeDron's POV (MD4)**

"Don't be a fool, Four. Death is the only option for people like that."

Evan, I realize with a start, is good as dead right about now. Blood soaks through his shirt in a thin line by his stomach, and if it wasn't for the poison, he would still probably be alive.

"You're a MONSTER!" My district partner walks up to Angel, leaving me to pat Evan's shoulder awkwardly in his last breaths. But then his breathing stops and his eyes stare up at me, unmoving, a cold and blind penetrating look. I quickly move my fingers over the eyelids, and, with his eyes closed, it gives the impression that he's asleep and nothing more. Or nothing less, depending on how you look at it.

"It delights me that you think that," Angel says so placidly it's creepy.

Profanities come from Peyton while Angel dangles the double-sided staff in the palm of her hand gently, and someway maliciously. Her eyes are cemented on my district partner, and she's smiling a smile that anyone would deem evil considering where we are. I see a single drop of poison fall off one of the spikes and drip onto the ground.

"You killed him," Peyton hisses between her teeth. "Because you didn't get to kill anybody else."

Angel blinks. "If you have a point, then I suggest you make it quickly. Before you die."

"Um…" This comes from Kimberly, District Two. He sways uncertainly from foot to foot. "We should get moving. We can probably catch up to the other tributes now if we get a move on." His own district partner Lia nods vigorously in agreement. Peyton glares. And Angel smiles.

"Of course, Kimberly. But before we do, I have a death wish to deal with."

We all watch stunned as Angel whips around rapidly, twirls the staff twice between her fingers, and knocks Peyton off her feet by hitting her legs with a part of the staff that, thankfully, isn't implanted with the spikes. Everyone simply continues to watch as Angel approaches her, and I know that Evan and Victory, being two of the loudest aside from Peyton, would be the ones to step in. Except, they're not here. And my district partner is about to die.

I gave myself up to save my sister Star. Without me winning, she'll die from the disease.

But I can't stand here and watch my last link to District Four die. Peyton definitely doesn't deserve this.

"Stop!"

The yell escapes before I can think. Angel halts with her staff half-way ready to kill Peyton, who's shaking her head at me; Lia widens her fingers which are covering her face so she can get a better look at what's going on; Summer and Kimberly blink a couple times in my direction.

"Stop?" Angel spits.

"I believe," I say gradually, "that is what I said."

"Why?" she asks, and, fortunately, lowers the weapon. Unfortunately, she is now advancing on me. "You shouldn't care. It wasn't your life on the line. It is now, however, which easily could've been avoided. But that's what I get for aligning myself with a group of utter idiots."

The last thing I see, before the staff hits the back of my head and the spikes dig in deep to my skull, is Angel smiling wickedly. The last thing I hear is Peyton screaming at Angel, and then at me, saying how she'll save Star. The last thing I feel is the acid oozing down my neck, burning like I was just engulfed in a fire. And my last thoughts are of my sister, dying, just like me, while my father weeps for both of us.

**Surviving Tributes:**

**District One: **

**None**

**District Two:**

**Lia Kingston**

**Kimberly Guerrant**

**District Three:**

**Anna-Marie Schleben**

**Farrow Alliyatt**

**District Four:**

**Peyton Bieda**

**District Five:**

**Nan Weatherall**

**Summer Whitesell**

**District Six:**

**Levve Morton**

**Mick Revelain**

**District Seven:**

**Natalia DeGuzman**

**Trey Lancaster**

**District Eight:**

**Angel Kramer**

**Naller Mahlon Versteeg**

**District Nine:**

**Bambi Zvoner**

**District Ten:**

**Sale Stride**

**Keed Ogle**

**District Eleven:**

**Luna Night**

**Birch Coleo Jernehy **

**District Twelve:**

**Calla Lilly Warbucks**

**Luke Cove**


	22. Out for Revenge

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or these characters.**

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who has been reviewing and reading. :) **

**Naller Mahlon Versteeg's POV (MD8)**

Farrow ran for the Cornucopia with Anna-Marie backing him up. Sale and I stayed back and fended off the girl from Seven for a few minutes before the explosion went off, and even if it did happen on the other side of the cave, it wasn't that big of a space we were all pushed in, and Sale and I got some of the impact from it too. So we sat there after getting blown backwards by the blast, dazed, while Farrow and Anna-Marie ran towards us, Anna-Marie holding a knife with a long blade and Farrow two backpacks. And then they dragged us off one of the tunnels.

It's dark. Really, that's all I can register. My head is pounding too much. The cannons for the bloodbath have gone off though—four people, dead. I won't be surprised if that number doubles by tonight.

"What do you think this is?" Anna-Marie asks in a whisper as the four of us walk down the tunnel, Farrow leading and Sale bringing up the rear. She hasn't been much of a help, at all, to tell you the truth. "A maze?"

I hear Farrow wince. "I hope not. But with all those tunnels, I'm glad you've got navigational knowledge, Anna-Marie."

"This isn't a maze, because mazes have a way out," I comment, massaging my right temple with one hand and pulling one of the backpacks up on my shoulder with the other. We've decided once we find a place to stay, a safe place, that's when we'll sort out the supplies. "I don't think this arena has an exit."

"Thanks, Mr. Optimistic," Sale says from behind me. "Those are some words that'll keep us all goin'."

"Shut up, Sale." Anna-Marie, who's in front of me, doesn't even turn around when she says it. "It's sorta hard to be optimistic when we're all on our deathbeds—_oof!_" She stops abruptly in front of me and I bump into her back and Sale into mine, and, up ahead, I see that Farrow's stopped walking, having caused the traffic jam.

"The tunnel's getting smaller," he tells us, stretching out both his arms so his fingers brush the walls on either side.

"So?"

He gives Sale a glare. "_So_, maybe this tunnel wasn't the best choice. I doubt the tunnel's getting smaller just _because_. We should head back—"

"To the Cornucopia? Where the careers are?" says Anna-Marie, shaking her head slightly.

His glare goes to his district partner, now. "If you want to go ahead and guide us, then by all means, be my guest. But this tunnel is bound to lead to some sort of disaster."

There's a pause.

"Fine, move out of my way."

Nobody says anything as Anna-Marie pushes in front of Farrow and starts walking deeper into the narrow tunnel. The top of my head is now skimming against the rock roof, and my elbows can just barely stick out without me getting uncomfortably squished. I'm beginning to feel claustrophobic when Anna-Marie shouts out, "A_ha!_ Found something."

Farrow winces again and I hear a clatter of metal against metal, and feel Sale grabbing my shoulder and trying to push me away so she can get a better look at what's going on. Farrow moves out of my own way and I can see, dimly, a metal cart that could fit about six people; three wooden benches are nailed unstably on the inside. Tracks that resemble train tracks are underneath it, and the cart is so wide it takes up the entire width of the tunnel. Even trying to get past it would be useless.

"Getting in that thing isn't such a good idea," Farrow warns. "It looks like it goes downhill… Anna-Marie, get out! This isn't a good idea!"

I sigh and lean against the wall, hunched over because the ceiling has gotten even lower. With the Threes constantly arguing, and Sale taking a backseat, I'm left with the job of the mediator in the alliance. I've already broken up two fights and held Anna-Marie back once when she lunged for Farrow's throat. And the fighting hasn't stopped.

"You two are giving me a headache," I inform them. Suddenly the idea of Anna-Marie heading down in that cart away from us, probably to her death, sounds… mildly good. Which is really, _really_ horrible and stuff, I know, but c'mon. Can you really blame me where these two are concerned?

Before Farrow can protest Anna-Marie jumps in the cart, and Sale knocks me into the wall with a strength I was unaware she had to follow the Three's lead. I blink, rubbing the spot where my arm whacked against the stone, but don't say anything. At least, not until I hear a cold approaching voice say, "Shut up, Four, unless you want to go the same way as your pathetic district partner."

It's not said, but it doesn't have to be spoken aloud for us to know what to do. Silently, Farrow climbs into the cart, on the middle seat behind Sale and Anna-Marie, and then I take the back, creaky wooden bench, placing my backpack between my legs firmly so it won't fall out.

Without more ado, the cart begins to move.

**Trey Lancaster's POV (MD7)**

I don't run for the Cornucopia. Nan doesn't run for the Cornucopia. Birch doesn't run for the Cornucopia. We find each other easily in the little cave, and then take off down the nearest tunnel. There's a rather loud _BOOM_ noise that follows our exit, and Nan squeezes my wrist harder as she tugs me along, and I do the same for Birch, who's behind me. My heart is hammering, because somewhere in the back of my mind I remember that video I came across on the train to the Capitol. The one with the boy ripping apart another guy's throat. I swallow hard and make my legs take longer steps. I don't wanna go out that way.

"Hear anything?" I whisper to Birch, who shakes his head. We keep running.

What seems like hours stretches on in the silence of our bare, arched tunnel, but I know it can't've been any more than ten minutes. I'm starting to get real tired, wishing I had gone for increased stamina rather than weaponry knowledge—I didn't even get a knife to use before we booked it out of there—, and at last Nan pants, "I—need—a—break," before plopping cross-legged onto the ground.

Birch and I fall with her. What looks like a bat flies quickly over Nan's head with a short loud screech, and she ducks, but then it's gone. The three of us wheeze relatively quietly, gasping in air, and wait another minute before agreeing we should get moving again. Holding onto Nan's hand in front of me, and Birch's behind me, we start to sprint once more.

This routine goes on forever. Run, rest, run. I think we're all just waiting for something to show up, something other than a vacant tunnel, but it never does. Just those bats that flap around harmlessly above our heads every now and then. If I had a knife, I could kill them and we could eat—except I don't, so I set my mind back to running.

Unexpectedly, Nan lets out a loud scream and falls forward, tugging my hand as she does. I try to dig my heels into the ground but it doesn't work and the ground ends rapidly beneath my feet, and I think I hear myself scream and tighten my hold on both Nan and Birch's hands as I pitch downwards too. Nan is dangling below me, palm sticky and slippery with sweat, and Birch is above me with only his arm, head and hand visible over the edge of the abrupt cliff.

I didn't see that coming. I didn't see anything, actually, in this blackness.

"I'm slipping…" Birch grunts, and a couple rocks pelt my face. I know that if I let go of Nan, I could pull myself up to safety. But I can't let go of her. I can't let her go because who knows how far she'll fall.

"I'm sorry!" Nan yells. Her voice echoes in the blackness, which hovers resoundingly all around us. "I didn't see it!"

"Not your fault," I yell back, although right now is hardly a time for reassurance. But I keep my voice calm. "How you doin' up there, Birch?"

"Honestly? Not—good—" His hand is also wet, and I feel myself slowly slipping. "I could try using both hands to—to pull you guys up but—I—I'm holding us up by the side of the—the edge and we'll all fall off anyways."

"So I'll let go!" exclaims Nan, causing both Birch and I to shout at the same time, "No!"

"Better me than all of us!"

Neither Birch nor I reply to that, because he's holding onto me with barely half of his hand now, his face scrunched up in concentration. And, all at once, he lets out a loud groaning noise and starts to pull. I feel myself slide upwards a couple inches before Birch disappears from view, because he's standing up, pulling with both hands. Nan and I are pulled up, and soon I'm on the safety of the ledge Nan didn't see, tugging the Five. When he sees we're both alive he collapses and pants hard, swiping his brow with his sleeve.

"How did you do that?" asks Nan.

"I climb trees," he says, and then he shuts his eyes tight and I think he falls asleep.

Nan and I blink at each other, unsure of what to do, so we don't do anything. She sits cross-legged like before and throws tiny rocks off the edge of the cliff and I twiddle my thumbs idly, thinking. I have all this knowledge of knives in my head, and no knife. If we run into another pack of tributes then we're all done for.

Just as I'm thinking this, a glint of silver falls from the ceiling. I look up and see holes protruding from the roof where the parachute is falling from, the spaces just wide enough for the package to fit through. It lands neatly on my lap.

"Open it," Nan says immediately.

I do. And I find a knife similar to the one I used back during training. It isn't too big for my small hands, and the blade isn't too long. It fits perfectly in my palm, my fingers curling around the tiny handle, and I know that now, if I get attacked, I at least stand a small chance of surviving.

"Thank you!" I say to my mentor, raising the knife higher in the air so the cameras can catch it. It's horribly risky of him to send me a bigger gift in the beginning of the competition, but we both know that without this knife, I'm through. This alliance is through.

But hastily, I remember my mentor Kurt's words, what he told me before I went off to training and had even made friends with Birch and Nan. _"Look out for the hidden signs. I might send you gifts to tell you something."_

And it isn't as if we _appear_ to be in instant danger, sitting here by this cliff. It is quite early in the Games for this knife. I doubt he'd send it to me unless he knew that without it, right now, I'm dead.

I stand up at the exact same time that Birch sits up, and in unison, we say, "We have to move."

Nan looks confused. "Why?"

"Someone's coming," Birch and I say simultaneously.

"I heard them," explains Birch, who then turns his eyes on me, as if inquiring how I could know without the hearing enhancement.

I inform them both, "Intuition," before mouthing another silent thank you.

**Luke Cove's POV (MD12)**

Even with a big cut on her collarbone from the District Eight boy, Natalia still finds the strength to yell at me. Everything I do is wrong. From the way I walk, to the volume of my voice, to the way I carry my knife and the way I breathe, all of it needs to be fixed. Calla has commented under her breath sarcastically that if I don't start doing something right they might have to kick me out of the alliance.

At least, I hope it was sarcasm.

"Maybe we should stop to, uh, fix that cut," says Keed. Natalia is leading the way through the tunnel we picked—the one that looked like had the most light. She is someway able to stomp and look extremely angry without making any noise.

"I'm fine. It's fine. It's not even that deep."

Calla waves her blood-soaked shirt around in the air and gestures to Natalia's, both of which were used to try and stop the immense blood flow coming from Natalia's collarbone. "Really. You'll lose blood and feel woozy in a while, so I think it's best to deal with it now." But Seven doesn't stop moving.

"I wouldn't be too concerned for your health if it didn't affect the group. But I think there's a fine line between being boldly stubborn, and stupid, and to put it nicely you're _waaaaay_ past stupid."

Calla gives me a look that suggests I've gone too far with the insults, Keed groans, and Natalia scoffs. "Disregarding the fact that if anyone informed me I was stupid, I'd only believe you, Luke, as it takes one to know one, I have to say that you are a royal jackass."

"Natalia," Calla says in her don't-make-me-count-to-three tone.

I stroke my chin in mock deep thought. "At least I'm royal at it. I'm even better than you at _that._"

"Luke!" My district partner looks repulsed.

Natalia laughs irreverently. "I really wish I could say that it was the explosion that totally screwed your head up, except you were as brainless back at the Training Centre as you are now."

"_Shut up!" _

Keed's voice is so loud it reverberates throughout the tunnel, and for a moment the four of us stop and make sure that nobody's going to pop out and kill us. When we're assured that no one heard, Keed continues. "I usually don't say things like this—"

"Usually you don't say things at all," I mutter, but he either doesn't hear me or doesn't care.

"—but you two amaze me. You turned my comment of worry for Natalia into a fight. You're both gonna get us all killed, so shuddup."

And, surprisingly, thanks to the affect that Keed's physical strength has on us, we do.

**Mick Revelain's POV (MD6)**

I had her. I saw her. I was standing there, just a couple plates and a couple people between me and her, a few obstacles that I could surely handle. I ran for the Cornucopia, got a knife, and dodged a hit to the head from the boy from One; but he still managed to scrape half my skin off on my upper-arm. And then I saw her again, Levve, running in the other direction. So I dove.

But the explosion got to me first.

Now, I walk down a tunnel, the one where I saw Levve nearest before everything exploded, my fist clenched around the handle of my knife. I vowed that when Levve killed my sister I would get revenge. And if I can't kill her, then I've failed.

I stick my blade into the rocky cave wall on my right side at about ear-level, and, not hearing anyone near me, dig into it roughly and begin to drag it along while I walk, leaving behind a deep cut in the wall—at least I won't be getting lost. I walk like this for nearly half an hour before coming to a fork in the road. I can go straight, or take a new tunnel that's emerging to my left. The one on my left, it somehow seems lighter and wider, and very, very vaguely, I can hear voices.

I pause for a moment, my knife sticking out of the cave wall.

I take the left one.

**Surviving Tributes:**

**District One:  
None**

**District Two:  
Lia Kingston  
Kimberly Guerrant**

**District Three:  
Anna-Marie Schleben  
Farrow Alliyatt**

**District Four:  
Peyton Bieda**

**District Five:  
Nan Weatherall  
Summer Whitesell**

**District Six:  
Levve Morton  
Mick Revelain**

**District Seven:  
Natalia DeGuzman  
Trey Lancaster**

**District Eight:  
Angel Kramer  
Naller Mahlon Versteeg**

**District Nine:  
Bambi Zvoner**

**District Ten:  
Sale Stride  
Keed Ogle**

**District Eleven:  
Luna Night  
Birch Coleo Jernehy **

**District Twelve:  
Calla Lilly Warbucks  
Luke Cove **


	23. To Kill or Not to Kill

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or these characters.**

**A/N: I now have a poll up on my profile, so go vote in it if you've got the time. Te****ll me who you're routing for. :)**

**And dynamite and bunnies brought to you by**** Claratrix LeChatham! **

**Nan Weatherall's POV (FD5)**

We start down the tunnel with Birch in the front,—since he's the one that got the hearing enhancement—Trey behind him,—since he's the one with the knife and the ability to wield it—and me behind them both—since healing knowledge won't exactly assist us in winning a physical fight. We're walking as quietly and swiftly as possible, edging up against one of the walls in the near darkness, in case we have to become invisible fast.

And that's when I hear it. A dragging, scraping noise, that resembles nails up against a chalkboard. Or something cutting into and dragging itself through the rock wall. I bite my bottom lip to keep from yelling in alarm.

"What is it?" whispers Trey, and I vaguely see Birch shake his head and put a finger to his lips, telling us to be quiet.

So we are. We stand there in the black, not daring to do so much as breathe.

"There are tracks," Birch says after a few minutes of silence, apparently deeming it safe to speak.

"What?"

"_Shh_, not so loud, Nan. There are train tracks beside me, or something. I can't see well. But there are tracks here."

I stretch out my foot so it reaches the wall opposite of us, feeling around the ground with my toes and sole. Coming across nothing but rocks, I say, hushed, "There isn't anything over here."

Following a couple more moments of Birch skimming the ground with his hands and feet, he goes, "It ends. The track. It just… ends."

"Was the track there when we came down here?" Trey questions softly.

"No," Birch replies.

"Then how'd it get there? Did we take a turn somewhere?"

"No," Eleven repeats, and we're noiseless again, left to wonder where in the world the tracks came from and what the violent, screeching noise is.

It gradually becomes louder, and I realize that it's echoing from the direction of the cave, the direction we were running away from, the direction that's closest to me and farthest from the train tracks—so, it's got nothing to do with those then. But what could it be?

And just that like, the noise stops, and I breathe out in sudden relief.

"NAN, MOVE! NOW!"

I don't know if it was Birch or Trey that yelled it, but it doesn't matter. I duck, and feel a whoosh of movement where my head had been leaning against the wall moments earlier. I roll to the side, but a blade digs deep to my leg and I let out a yelp of pain, grasping at the blood pouring from the cut right above my knee, trying to put pressure on it in any way possible.

I hear footsteps—the tunnel, somehow, has gotten abruptly darker, and all I can see are three silhouettes standing above me—and Trey yelling at Birch to get around him and out of his way so he can fight. The tallest shadow, the one that stabbed me, I can see is tall. Taller than Birch and Trey, and even if I can't make out the face, I can tell that this person has more muscle. And a better blade, judging by the size of the slice that's torn through my skin. If Trey thinks that he can fight whoever that is, and win—

A terrible clash of metal against metal, knife against knife sounds through the empty tunnel, and knowing that my allies need help, I pull myself backwards with my palms until my back presses against the cave wall, and then use the rock to hoist myself up onto my legs. I wobble unstably for a second, my bad leg almost giving way, but in the end resort to simply lunging myself at the tall person attacking Birch and Trey accompanied by my scream of agony.

My hands make contact with his back, throwing him face-first into the ground. But his blade finds my arm as he rolls over and it wedges into my arm. It may not be as deep as the wound in my leg, but it still hurts just as much.

Trey shoves me off the guy—short hair, muscled arms, I'm going to assume that he's a guy—and Trey lifts his arm to stab him in the back, when he stops and hesitates, uncertain. The small pause in Trey's combat gives our opponent an upper advantage, and Birch is tackled onto the ground.

"Don't come closer," he says to Trey and me breathlessly, and now that I'm standing only feet away and not trying to prevent my own death, I can see black hair and brown eyes, and a long, stretched nose. Six. This guy is from Six. "If you try and kill me," he addresses to only Trey, no longer me, as if I'm not much of a threat with my gender, size and wounded arm and leg, "then he'll die too, okay?"

Trey nods; I see him swallow. But I just glare. We're stuck at a cross-road here: Six can kill Birch, but he'd have a knife in his back from Trey the next second. Or Trey could kill Six, but then Birch would die. One of us has to make the first move or we'll be stuck here forever, all of us sitting ducks for whatever is going to come down those tracks.

"You're manly," I mutter, "taking down kids smaller than yourself."

Birch shakes his head frantically from his position, pinned-down by Six, like he's trying to get a message across that I can't understand. Trey notices it too, and furrows his brow and shakes his head nearly undetectably to show him we don't get it.

"Have you seen my district partner?"

These are the last words I expected to come from this boy's mouth, after insulting him and all. My allies are visibly confused just as much as I am and we all share a couple looks, before Birch says slowly, "Uh… Is she the one with blondish brownish hair and brown-green eyes?"

Six blinks and looks at him. "Yes. I'll ask again. Have. You. Seen. Her."

Birch runs his tongue over his gums. He's either thinking hard or trying to make it look like he is. "Yeah, I think. She ran right past us a while ago. In that direction." He jerks his head to the train tracks side of the tunnel, and I see Trey's face light up with something that looks like understanding, beginning to nod at Birch. Now I blink. What am I not getting?

"Well, thanks for you help, kid." He raises his arm, to stab Birch, when I hear someone screaming. More than one person, actually. All four of us turn to look at the corner to our left where the tracks end, and, barreling around the corner, I see a small metal car thing, holding four people I don't get a good look at before I dive out of the way, listening to more screams and swears as the cart swerves and knocks straight into Birch and Six, running them over, and then toppling upside-down just like the Nine's chariot.

Trey doesn't waste a second. He rushes over to where Birch and Six lay, both motionless on the ground, and starts to drag Birch down the train tracks. I limp to help him.

"Hurry," he pants. "Before Six wakes up and those tributes get out of there."

**Kimberly Guerrant's POV (MD2)**

"We have to k-k-kill her."

I turn to look at Lia, who isn't looking back at me, but is walking down the tunnel gazing straight ahead. Though the stutter makes it almost undeniable that it had been her who'd spoken.

"Kill her?" I question quietly, staring at Peyton's back. We're all walking in a line down the tunnel—Angel leading, of course, with Peyton behind her, me and Lia behind Peyton, and then Summer taking the rear. "Kill who?"

She still doesn't look at me. "Y-you know who."

I frown.

"Sh-sh-she killed Dillon and Evan and she'll kill u-us if-f it c-comes to it."

I still frown. It's a big risk, Lia telling me this, not only because Angel's got the hearing enhancement but because for all she knows I could be secretly aligned with Angel. So I have to respect her sudden bravery, even if I do feel horrible for the short response I give her. "Good luck with that."

But anything else would give away too much about who I really am.

Lia looks in the other direction, clearly deterred, but her words linger there in my mind.

_Kill Angel._

Defeat the biggest threat in the competition.

I shudder just thinking about it… and yet… somehow… the gears are already turning in my mind.

**Luna Night's POV (FD11)**

Bambi refuses to talk to me. She speaks in whispers to Levve, occasionally, while the three of us walk through the snaking tunnel we chose. I think she blames me for Senn's death. And to be honest, I don't disagree. Maybe I could've saved him and stopped him from lighting the dynamite. But I got Bambi out of there, at least one of my allies, after she flew back and knocked her head on the ground pretty hard. So it counts that I got her out, right?

We travel for hours, never coming across a single possible turn we could make. I walk in silence, listening to Bambi and Levve talk about their district partners. If I didn't have the hearing enhancement I would probably be too far ahead to hear, but I pick up that Levve's is a psychopathic killer that is only this arena to murder her and that Bambi misses Senn. A lot. Which doesn't exactly lift my spirits.

Something white flickers across my vision below me suddenly, and I let out a small yelp, causing Bambi and Levve to shout out too even if they haven't seen the bright flash in the dark channel. But I get a better look almost instantly when my heart slows and I realize that it's a… a rabbit. The hell? A rabbit?

"Cute." Bambi stops to pet it but immediately jumps away with her eyes wide in shock. "Holy shit, it's got red eyes."

Levve leans in closer too, but then leaps away just the same. The animal sits there, with white fur and two bright red specks for eyes staring up at the three of us, almost like it's _waiting_ for someone to kill it and eat it. And I have to admit that I am starting to get a little hungry…

"Where'd that thing _come_ from?" asks Levve. But it seems rhetorical, so I don't reply.

"Let's find out." I start down the tunnel again, but with a purpose this time. Now we have something to go on. Find out where this rabbit came from and if there's a water source there. I don't really think bunnies would be able to live underground, usually, anyways.

It doesn't take long for the tunnel to begin to get wider, and I breathe a sigh of relief; maybe this leads out of here. We're trapped in the dark, in these hollow spaces, no sunlight and no fresh air. It's only been a couple hours and I'm feeling claustrophobic. I don't want to know what a couple weeks will be like. I mean, if I even get that far.

My hopes of sunlight and nice breezes are diminished when we emerge in a cave, bigger than the one we started off in, the one that holds the Cornucopia. The ceiling stretches in a dome shape over our heads, and in front of us is a forest. Not a real forest, with green trees and grass and soil and life, but a dead one. The trees bare no leaves, only black and brown rotting branches. Roots stick out at odd angles in the ground, the rocky floor crumbling where they do. And the albino bunny hops past us and disappears behind the thick masses of trees.

"Shit," says Bambi. Since her district partner died I'm not sure if she understands how to speak a whole entire sentence without swearing. "This is creepy."

Levve nods in agreement and scratches at a scar on the back of her hand, which she seems to do a lot, and goes, "We could… turn around…"

"But nobody's here!" I exclaim, starting to walk deeper into the dead forest. It's empty, even that rabbit has vanished. Behind me Levve cautiously takes a step in, like she's walking into an active landmine, but Bambi stays at the entranceway, repeating over and over to nobody in particular, "This isn't a good idea, we're all going to freaking die. If Senn were here he would freaking think it, too…"

Except, with not-so-nice language.

"Let's find something to eat," I say, walking gingerly to the area where I last saw the bunny. The only other source of food I've seen in this place so far has been the bats, and if I can get my hands on some food that doesn't flap around out of my reach, then I'm going to go for it no matter what Levve and Bambi think. "My stomach's growling."

"Don't eat the rabbits, Luna," Levve says quietly. "I don't think they'll do us much good."

I wave my hand around in the air. "I never said _you_ had to eat it. I'm hungry, so I'm going to eat."

"Well…" The Six continues scratching at that scar.

"Your funeral," Bambi puts in. She still hasn't come into the clearing and out from the dark tunnel, and she's leaning against the tunnel wall, her eyes following a bat that's flying around over her head. I decide that it isn't worth replying and keep walking.

I venture deeper through the lifeless trees, feet crunching over gravel and rock, the trees slowly becoming thicker and thicker. Neither Levve nor Bambi have taken to following my lead for food, and I can no longer see them when I glance over my shoulder because the trees block my vision, but that's fine. If they don't want to help me look then I don't have to share it with them.

It's calm as I reach the end of the circular cave and find more curving rock and more dead plants sprouting out of the ground, nothing more. I give up in frustration, no rabbits to eat, and kick at the wall in anger. Dammit.

But where I kick, the wall breaks. And at first I think it's me that's doing it, so I keep kicking, slamming my fists into it, trying to break through the whole wall to see what's on the other side, see if it leads outside to the sun and fresh air so I can escape this horrible arena. And it's only when the rock starts to break feet above my head do I realize that it's collapsing in from the other side.

I back up as a piece of gravel hits my nose roughly, staring at the deteriorating wall. Is it caving in? Oh no, oh no, oh no…

But all at once the rest of the wall falls to the ground, and far behind me I think I hear Bambi or Levve scream at the tremendous noise it makes, booming through the cavern. It's nothing compared to the volume of my own scream, though, when I see what's behind the wall, glaring down at me through tiny, black, beady eyes.

It's some kind of animal. I've seen it once or twice in the books they give us at school that show the history of District Eleven, and apparently way back in the day these things could be used for plowing the fields, being so strong. But they were wild and were soon eliminated completely from Eleven because of the havoc they created. Albeit this one is different from the pictures I've seen for two reasons: it's standing on two feet, not on all fours, and it's humongous in size. Identical horns the length of my leg arch from either side of the ugly head, and the arms are muscular; so muscular that they look at least ten times the size of Kimberly Guerrant's from District Two. Its hair is a grayish color that covers the whole, ten-foot high body, and it makes a deep breathing noise as its huge nostrils flare in and out, in and out, the sinister eyes pointed directly at me.

I take a step backwards, prepared to run, but conveniently trip over a root. I scream again and hope that Levve and Bambi will hear me and come to help. Somehow. I don't know if they would be able to take this thing. Heck, I don't even know if _Angel_ could take this thing.

It moves a step forward so heavily that the ground fissures beneath the foot—er, hoof. I yell once more, this time shouting out for help. But nobody comes.

"Please," I say, a last resort, crawling back on my hands and legs, ignoring the sharp rocks that splinter my skin because the monster currently holds my attention. "Please, please no…"

Another step. The ground fractures. It snorts, nostrils still swelling. I see it clench its almost-human hands while the knuckles crack loudly. I scream again.

I know I'm done. I can't outrun the long, massive legs, and I obviously can't plain old fight it. So I do the last thing I can think of, for my brother and sisters and mother.

"Mom, Nico, Nina, May, I love you so much. Remember that, because I'll always be with you. All of you. Now please turn away; don't look."

And then I shut my own eyes before it charges.

**Surviving Tributes:**

**District One:  
None**

**District Two:  
Lia Kingston  
Kimberly Guerrant**

**District Three:  
Anna-Marie Schleben  
Farrow Alliyatt**

**District Four:  
Peyton Bieda**

**District Five:  
Nan Weatherall  
Summer Whitesell**

**District Six:  
Levve Morton  
Mick Revelain**

**District Seven:  
Natalia DeGuzman  
Trey Lancaster**

**District Eight:  
Angel Kramer  
Naller Mahlon Versteeg**

**District Nine:  
Bambi Zvoner**

**District Ten:  
Sale Stride  
Keed Ogle**

**District Eleven:  
Birch Coleo Jernehy **

**District Twelve:  
Calla Lilly Warbucks  
Luke Cove **


	24. Secrets

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, or these characters.**

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who has been reading and reviewing, and to those that have taken me killing off their characters very lightly. Thank you all a lot, and I'm sorry that all the tributes can't win.**

**Unfortunately now that my school is starting, I won't be updating as often. So that's my excuse for the late update. Feel free to sic Angel on me if this chapter wasn't worth the wait at all. Or, more preferably, upon my teachers.**

**And a huuuuuuuuge thank you to Penelope Wendy Bing who realized I was stumped in the story and conquered the land of lawn chairs, somehow giving me the inspiration to start this chapter. :D**

**Sale Stride's POV (FD10)**

We all clamber out of the cart, except for Anna-Marie, who isn't moving. I'm thinking this is good, another tribute I don't have to kill, but Farrow drags her out and announces that she's still alive and begins to slap her lightly on the face in a stupid attempt to wake her up.

For who knows long we all wait there while Farrow tries to revive his district partner, Naller yawning and sitting on the ground and leaning against the rock wall and me lying beside him, staring up at the holes in the roof that sponsor gifts must come through. At last, Anna-Marie gasps in a breath and Farrow steps back as she sits up, blinking, looking around at the three of us.

"You okay?" Naller asks.

She blinks some more, looking around the dark tunnel, our faces, as if she's very, very confused.

"What's going on?" she says.

"Our cart flipped over." Farrow gestures to the upturned metal thing lying a couple feet away from us, blocking that entrance—or exit, I guess—completely. "I think you hit your head. Didn't she, Sale?"

"Uh… what?"

"Did she hit her head? You were the one sitting beside her."

Thankfully they can't see my cheeks heating up in the dim light. "Yeah, um, on the ground, I'm sure." Then I turn away and pretend to occupy myself with picking small pieces of rock out from underneath my nails, which earns me an accusing, prying look from Naller, but he doesn't say anything to me. I'm sure if he knew that I tried to push Anna-Marie out of the cart when we crashed, only making her smack her head brutally on the ground and nothing more severe, he'd have no problem killing me right here and right now.

"No…" Anna-Marie says slowly, like she's having troubles getting the words out, "I mean, where are we?"

"In a tunnel," I say, stating the obvious for her, but Farrow shoots me a disapproving glance and goes, "In the arena, Anna-Marie. In the arena."

There's a lingering silence in which I continue to pick gravel from my nails and cuticles, not because I'm concerned with their state, but because I'm afraid doing anything else will make me look guilty. In that Justice Building back in Ten, I said to my parents that I would do whatever it took to get home. And I will. For them, for my best friend Jane, and for myself. It's how the Games are played and I'm not afraid to play them right.

"So… I'm in the Hunger Games, then?"

We all stare at the Three who hit her head. How hard did I push her exactly, how hard did I try to get one of my allies out of this competition? However much, I still failed. I failed miserably, because apparently instead of dying she has no idea where she is. Instead of killing off part of the alliance to make myself stronger I've just made us all even weaker, now that we have to lug around a girl who has a case of amnesia or something.

Not that the others know that, but still.

"Do you know your name?" Farrow asks.

"Yes. Anna-Marie Schleben."

"Where are you from?"

"District Three."

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

I don't notice anything wrong with her answer, but noticeably Naller and Farrow do. Farrow groans and Naller swears, and I go, "What? What is it?"

"She's not sixteen, Sale," Naller whispers so just I can hear, and Farrow goes on with asking Anna-Marie questions about who she is and what she remembers. "She's seventeen. I think she hit her head so hard she got amnesia, and now she can't remember the last year of her life."

Abruptly, I get it. "So she doesn't have the navigational knowledge anymore? We're totally lost without that!"

He shrugs and looks at the low ceiling. And I get the message to shut up for once.

—

She doesn't know where she is, she doesn't know where we've been, and my parents being doctors, I know that she must have hit her head hard enough to affect the part of her brain that handles all her memories, which must also be the area that the Capitol inserted that chip into, because she can't remember which direction the Cornucopia is in. She talks with Farrow peacefully, for once, up front while I take the rear, again, and Naller stalks silently in front of me.

As we walk I hear something hit the ground behind us and, seeing that neither Naller nor Farrow have noticed, I spin around to see a bright silver parachute lying on the floor. I rush over quietly, unwrap the bright silver and take the tiny knife in my hands, shoving it into my pocket and then quickly hurrying to keep up with the rest of them.

But Naller is standing there around the corner, facing my direction, like he's waiting for me. He got the same alteration as me, enhanced eyesight, but that doesn't allow you to see around corners. I have nothing to worry about. He didn't see the sponsor gift.

"What were you doing?" he queries.

"I fell."

"You sure?"

"I think I would know if I fell or not, Naller, don't you?"

He frowns—not confusedly, but accusingly; the same way he looked at me back there when I told Farrow Anna-Marie just hit her head on the ground—and takes a peek over my shoulder. "So the silver wrappings back there are from when you fell, huh?"

My face heats up. Think, Sale, think.

"They were there before, okay? I just wanted to see if there was anything in them, which there isn't. So can we move on?"

His stare is really getting to me now, because it's so intense it's like he can see straight through me, read my thoughts, glimpse into my pocket and spot the blade my mentor sent me. But I have to bolster up my confidence and assure myself that enhanced eyesight doesn't give you X-ray vision to slow my heartbeat.

"I'll take the back," he decides. "You go up ahead."

I shrug, appearing unaffected. But it's obvious he knows I'm lying, and it's obvious that he doesn't want to be the one who has to walk directly in front of me, the first that I'll stab in the back.

**Levve Morton's POV (FD6)**

After we heard Luna screaming and, later, a cannon going off, Bambi grabbed my hand and told me to run. So we ran. It's like she knew Luna was going to die the moment she stepped into that horrible dead forest, but still did nothing to stop her. And I have to wonder, could Bambi's hatred for District Eleven be so bad that she wishes someone from there dead? Her own ally, even?

"Why didn't we go in and try to help her?" I ask Bambi, not because I really want to know the answer, but because the silence in the tunnel is unbearable.

"We probably would've died too," she says.

"You tackled Angel for Senn," I point out, trying my hardest to keep the conversation going. I hate the silence in this place more than anything. It's like I'm _waiting_ for Mick to jump out and stab me to death. "You could've died there, but that didn't stop you."

"It's different." She shakes her head and closes her eyes for a second when I say her deceased district partner's name. "Senn had a piece of my home in him, and we were friends, Levve. He was like my brother. And you can't stand there and watch your brother die, can you?"

"I don't know," I admit. "I don't have one." But I wish I did, I add to myself, remembering the distant relationship I've always had with my parents.

I think of Mick. If I saw him dying would I try and save him? Would I step in, because of what I did to his sister and the hurt I brought upon his family, whether it had been accidental or not? I've promised myself I won't hurt him in these Games no matter how much he longs to hurt me but does that extend as far as sacrificing myself so he can go on and get back to Six, back to his mother and father, who I know have been torn apart since his sister's death?

"I don't know," I repeat. It occurs to me that for once in my life, I don't know more than I actually do.

Get your thoughts straight, I think while we walk. What's your goal right now? To get food, and to find a water source. Forget Luna, you can pay her respects later, and forget Mick, for now think about yourself and your alliance—however small that may be. You need to stay alive, and hopefully, out of Mick's way. If you don't run into him then he doesn't have to try to kill you and you don't have to let him.

"Why do you do that?"

I look at Bambi, and see that her eyes are fixed on the scar at the back of my hand that I'm currently scratching at. I stop immediately, let my arms drop by my sides, and my words come out so quickly it's as if they're rehearsed. "I don't know."

She bobs her shoulders up and down dismissively following a short pause. "Eh. Fair enough. I'm thirsty, let's find some water."

**Keed Ogle's POV (MD10)**

Natalia finally obliged to letting Calla patch up her collarbone. I think the Twelve almost vomited while doing it, twice, but I couldn't really tell over Luke and Natalia screaming out insults at each other. The one good thing I can say about those two is that they aren't afraid to say stuff to each other's face. If that means anything. And it probably doesn't.

"Look," says Calla. She seems to be the one that keeps them both under control, all relatively calm and collective the majority of the time. "We have to find food. And water."

Luke throws his knife at one the bats that are hanging above our heads, sending the others into a frenzy and taking off down opposite sides of the tunnel. The bat he hit plops onto the ground at Natalia's feet, which only gives her another reason to yell at him, and this time I have to be the one to break up the fight as Calla looks completely exhausted.

"Great, we've got a bat," mutters Natalia, and I go, "Please don't do this," but she doesn't listen to me. She just keeps on talking. "How do you reckon that'll feed all four of us? You scared the others off!"

"Shut up," Luke replies. "It's better than nothing, isn't it? And Calla's right; we have to keep looking for water."

After more fighting we walk on, being blown back briefly by strong winds, but Calla states that it's a good sign so we keep going. At one point the wind is so harsh that we have to link hands—much to Natalia and Luke's dismay—and pull each other along. But suddenly, it stops, and a bitter chilliness takes over the tunnel. I pull the plain black jacket that we're all required to wear around me tighter and shiver.

"The hell do I skin this thing?"

Luke's holding the black bat in one of his hands, the skin so dark and so stretched that it looks like old, worn leather. Natalia shudders at the sight of it. Calla sighs. "Just give it to me, I'll do it."

He gladly hands her the bat and his knife and we all stalk quietly forwards, Calla doing something to the bat, cutting it open and sending the guts splayed onto the floor. Nobody pays much attention to this though. I don't know about the others, but my throat is pretty freaking dry, and I need water, and so walking is the best solution I can think of.

"Snow!"

I stare at Natalia who has knelt on the floor of the tunnel facing the wall. She turns to us with her hands cupping a white substance that I know is called snow. I have never really seen it in my district, but I've noticed it in some of our schoolbooks. Frozen water. Like ice, but it falls like rain does. District Seven shoves a handful in her mouth, swallowing, and Calla screams at her and says it could be poisonous, so we all wait for Natalia to drop dead or something. But she doesn't and so Luke dives for some too. I hesitantly follow.

It promptly melts into water in my mouth, sliding down my throat. Refreshing would be an understatement.

The snow is built up in the edges of the tunnel probably only surviving because of the extreme cold temperatures. But it's water. Sort of. And that's good enough for me to ask no questions about it.

We spend five more minutes scooping the snow up and gulping it down until we all agree that we're quenched. Then we keep on walking. And Calla keeps cutting the bat up, groaning under her breath every time a new piece of the insides splatter on the hard rock ground.

It's still cold, freezing even, way past the temperatures I've ever experienced in Ten. There, we couldn't have it cold, because we had to keep the animals healthy. But here it's clearly not the case, and Luke ends up complaining about it for a little bit about how his toes are going numb. But the temperatures can't last forever. How boring would four tributes dying because of some disease you get when you're too cold, no bloodshed, be?

Before we reach a fork in the road Luke catches two more bats and Calla successfully skins one of the three. But at that time another tunnel starts to branch out from our current one, and we're left with a choice. To take the new route, or stay on our current, cold and freezing one.

"I say let's get out of here." Nobody argues with Luke, everybody follows silently. And turns out it was a good choice. The coldness slowly changes back to the regular lukewarm, humid temperature of the arena, and I feel my frozen toes at last beginning to uncurl in my shoes.

"Do you remember your friends?"

Luke and I freeze at the voice. Natalia bumps into my back and Calla looks back at us, confused, but I signal for them both to be quiet. The hearing enhancement is kicking in, apparently not only for me, but for Luke too.

"Yes. I told you that already. Didn't I?"

The words and their meanings seem irrelevant, because I've heard enough to realize that the voices are coming in our direction. I'm not sure whether it's a good thing that we took this tunnel or not anymore despite the former coldness—we're about to run into more tributes and all, but on the other hand, they could've easily been the ones sneaking up behind us.

"Farrow, we get it. Anna-Marie's lost a year of her life. After an hour of questioning even _I've_ figured it out."

Sale. That's my district partner. I can recognize her voice. And her alliance must be with her too, then. The guy from Eight, who injured Natalia, and the Threes. Calla isn't a fighter, I know that, and Luke isn't too strong. Natalia can fight mildly well but that cut the boy from Eight got on her looked pretty bad. If we choose to fight this group, then it's obvious that the fate of my alliance rests on my shoulders.

Luke grips his knife. I hold my own tightly. It's no mace, I can tell you that, but I feel more comfortable with some sort of protection in my hands than none at all, and as of now this knife will have to do. But there's still no telling what this alliance retrieved from the Cornucopia. Hopefully, it isn't much.

That's when they round the corner. They must see us before we see them, but we heard them a while back so in comparison I think we win. In a way. We all stop for a moment, Calla muttering something incoherent and Luke taking half a step back and then, as if realizing it was a mistake, another step forwards, lining himself up beside me.

Only the Threes are visible. Anna-Marie, looking utterly terrified for some reason or another considering I've never seen her looking scared before, and Farrow, staring unblinkingly at a point behind me. I don't want to kill them. I don't want to kill _anyone_. It's too terrible to even comprehend. But grudgingly I think of my girlfriend, and my mother, and my unborn sibling and my fist winds itself more firmly around the hilt of my blade.

I raise my arm, to do what I'm not sure, but that's when the glint of silver races towards me. I duck, but not in time. It lodges right below my throat, and I hear my knife clatter onto the stone ground, metal against rock, and my own ragged breaths. At first it's pain that erupts within my chest, but it changes to just breathlessness that is almost even worse, and finally it morphs to numbness. Everything is blurring. Everything fades but my thoughts—my thoughts of my mother, my father, the tiny baby that is on the way and my girlfriend Karin—which I intend to keep with me long after everything goes black.

The Capitol can take my take my life, but I refuse to let them take my family.

**Surviving Tributes:**

**District One: None**

**District Two:  
Lia Kingston  
Kimberly Guerrant**

**District Three:  
Anna-Marie Schleben  
Farrow Alliyatt**

**District Four:  
Peyton Bieda**

**District Five:  
Nan Weatherall  
Summer Whitesell**

**District Six:  
Levve Morton  
Mick Revelain**

**District Seven:  
Natalia DeGuzman  
Trey Lancaster**

**District Eight:  
Angel Kramer  
Naller Mahlon Versteeg**

**District Nine:  
Bambi Zvoner**

**District Ten:  
Sale Stride **

**District Eleven:  
Birch Coleo Jernehy**

**District Twelve:  
Calla Lilly Warbucks  
Luke Cove**


	25. District Seven Plus One

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or the following characters.**

**I'm not sure if anyone's still reading this, because I know I probably wouldn't be if I were you.**

**I won't give you a million excuses as to why I haven't been writing lately or anything, because I think it's too late for that. I'll just say there's been a lot going on lately that I haven't handled in the best way.**

**So if you don't want to read, that's fine with me. And the updates might not be a once-a-day thing. But they'll be here. Longer and better than this one, I'm sure. I sort of rushed through this one because I wanted it out ASAP.**

**And if you do read, well then, you know, thanks so much for all your guys' support. Especially Penelope Wendy Bing, who gave me a little bit of inspiration with her review.**

**Happy holidays. :)**

**Peyton Bieda's POV (FD4)**

All we've been doing is blowing stuff up.

Which, if it keeps Angel busy and all, by all means is perfectly fine by me. I just mean… there are more important things than blowing up walls to satisfy the Devil's bloodlust. I've tried to tell her that, too, except she just waved a stick of dynamite in my face and threatened me.

I responded by saying she could be pretty if she smiled once and a while. I'm still not too sure if it was a compliment or not.

She grimaced.

I told her to show her teeth and it'd suffice as a grin.

The result was scratch marks down the length of my cheek.

"I think we should head back to the Cornucopia," Kimberly says slowly, cautiously, after Angel's knocked away another rock wall. "We've been out here searching for people for hours, and we haven't found anything."

"Pathetic," she spits, but doesn't object to the request. I guess even she's gotta sleep some time.

So we head back the way we came, the thread we retrieved from the Cornucopia leading the way. It was my idea, the thread thing, actually. I salvaged it after my district partner's death and announced if we were to go hunting tonight we better lay this stuff out behind us to guide the way, just so we could find our way back and not get lost in the place.

Angel picks up the end of the string and we all—Lia, Kim and I, as Summer is back guarding the Cornucopia—follow silently. I want to say something. Anything that might show Angel that she isn't in total control of the alliance. But then again, I'm not exactly feeling suicidal at the moment.

Maybe in the morning.

If there is a morning without a sun.

"Pa-Peyton?"

Lia, who is currently taking the back, grabs a hold of my shoulder and pulls me back a couple steps, out of pace with Kimberly. Deciding that even if she wanted to kill me she probably couldn't, I obey and stop for a second.

"Yeah?" I say.

"We have to kill her."

No stutter, no hesitation: the least thing I would expect from the District Two girl. So I blink a few times. "You mean… District Seven plus one?"

This code takes her a while to understand. But with her hearing ability, Angel could be eavesdropping on a conversation a mile away, and as long as she doesn't hear her name or district I doubt she'll care much at all. To her, nobody is really much of a threat anyways.

"Yes," Lia confirms.

"I know. Of course we do—"

"DISTRICT TWO AND FOUR, WHAT ARE YOU DOING BACK THERE? HAVING A TEA PARTY?"

"S-sorry!" yells Lia to District Seven Plus One. She starts walking again and I do the same, but I make sure I'm close enough that I can still hear her speak quietly to my back. "W-we can't attack her. She g-got a t-twelve, and if K-Kim doesn't want-t-t to help we have no chance in a f-fight."

I nod to show that I understand, but she doesn't continue, so I guess she thinks it's my turn to talk.

"Poison," I murmur softly. "She has all the dynamite on lockdown, it looks like."

But before either of us can extend the plan to assassinate Angel, we hear a shout of frustration from the front from Seven Plus One herself, another from Kim, and then a loud, booming, echoing noise that signifies she has blown yet something else up.

When the two of us turn the corner we find Angel and Kim on the ground, Kim unconscious and Angel kicking at a rock wall, screaming incoherently but absolutely furious nonetheless. Lia seems too scared to ask what happened. I don't feel like asking myself.

Though I go, "What's wrong with Kim?" anyhow.

All of her words are slurred together and pointed towards the wall she's currently abusing. "Idiot—rebounded—string's gone—moving walls—fuck them—the Gamemakers—bastards—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, count backwards from one hundred and calm down."

Luckily, she's too busy screaming profanities to hear me.

After a couple more minutes, she's settled enough to yell at me directly, rather than at inanimate objects. "Do you recognize this wall, Four? _DO YOU?"_

I pretend to examine it, for her sake. "Uh, it sort of looks like every other wall we've seen. You know… grey… made out of stone… that kind of thing…."

"This—wall." She accents every word with a punch to it. "Was—not—here—be—fore!"

"How can you tell?"

Seven Plus One glares, like she can't believe the nerve of me, asking a question. "Because the string is _under the wall_."

Lia cowers behind me as I step forward to look at this wall more closely now, running my hands along the bottom of it and finding, somehow, our string, which lays right underneath, disappearing behind it. Moving walls? I wouldn't put it past the Gamemakers and I can't see any other explanation for our string suddenly being hidden under a wall that's apparently appeared from nowhere. I stand up calmly—one of us in this group has to be—and brush off my hands. "That's unusual."

Her glare broadens. "So will the way I kill you be."

Well, I can't say I wasn't expecting that.

I change the subject while cracking my knuckles, looking for somewhere to look other than at Angel. "So what, then? Did Kim get hit by this moving wall?"

"No, moron," she says. "I tried to get rid of the wall with dynamite but it rebounded before it went off and landed where Kim was standing. He obviously didn't know how to move in time. It's his own fault."

Lia's tending to her district partner in a millisecond, checking his pulse and announcing with the stutter that he's not dead, so that's one less thing I'm required to worry about. I sigh and close my eyes, and for a second, imagine what I would be doing back in District Four right now, if I hadn't been reaped. I would be at Blaise's house, sitting on his window seat in his room while he sat across from me on the edge of his bed, neither of us saying anything, staring out at the street below and hoping that somehow both of our tributes would come back this year. I hate watching people die. And I wish they didn't have to.

At least, not this way.

I open my eyes again to find Angel's consistent glare penetrating me.

"Okay. Well, we'll have to blow this wall up then. This time without almost killing each other, if you can manage to pull that off."

She's already yanking out another stick of dynamite.

**Calla Lilly Warbuck's POV (FD12)**

We run after Keed dies.

It's cowardly and whatever, but that's what we do. Did anyone really think that we stood a chance with Luke and Natalia being the main fighters of this alliance, and Keed dead? It's the Threes. And Naller. I'll count Sale out, because of her low training score, but even if it was only the three of us against Anna-Marie and Farrow we'd have no hope.

Thankfully, while we're running, neither Natalia nor Luke finds the strength within them to argue with the other. Their dispute only gets as far as: "I'm out of breath. Can we stop for a second?" "Suck it up, princess." "Natalia, shut up, I was talking to Calla. Not you." And then they both clamp their mouths shut as we run for a little more in utter silence—something I haven't heard in quite the while.

We come to a turn in the road, and I'm about to turn it, leading both of my allies, when something slams in front of me blocking our path. I knock head-first into the rock wall, falling backwards. I hear Natalia stop abruptly behind me. I hear Luke curse. Panic is gradually setting in.

I don't know what's going on exactly, but I'm smart enough from watching former Games to know if we stay here any longer then we're most likely going to die. I shout, "GO BACK", but it's too late, and I can see that Luke's banging on a wall that must have shut us out the way we came, too. I only ponder for a quarter of a second over the moving walls thing. All the blood is rushing to my ears so quickly I can't hear my own thoughts.

I can't die here.

I won't die here.

Natalia and Luke are arguing, but I stand up slowly and yell at them, somehow my voice stable, to shut the fuck up. They both do so. I'm not too sure if it's because they're shocked that I swore, or because they're really listening to me for once, but I don't reflect over that for too long, either.

I open my mouth to speak, but I'm cut off by a hole uncovering bit by bit in the curved, rocky roof above our heads.

We all look up.

And then, after a few long moments, water starts to pour in.

**Anna-Marie Schleben's POV (FD3)**

I know where I'm going.

I know I said I didn't, and that I don't remember anything that's happened the entire past year, but I do.

I remember everything.

I also remember Sale trying to push me out of the cart before we crashed, before everything went black and Farrow shook me awake. Does that make me a bad person, lying about something huge like that and risking the safety of my alliance?

Maybe. But I think it might make me just as sneaky as Sale, too.

But then there's the question, why would I do this? Maybe the only reason they were keeping me around at all was because of my navigational knowledge, and now that that's 'gone', they have no reason. But it was also true before that Farrow and I fought like cats and dogs, and now, this is like a new beginning.

This could be severely stupid. Or it could be brilliant.

We'll see.

They run, that other alliance with the Twelves and a Seven and a Ten, but we don't follow. Sale's district partner is dead and Farrow proclaims that that's enough. Nobody bothers to bring up the subject of what and who killed Keed exactly until the other alliance has booked it at least a mile more down the tunnel.

"The hell?" says Naller, glaring pointedly at Sale. "Where did you get the knife from? The silver wrappings that you just found _lying on the ground?_"

I stand there innocently and watch like I'm completely oblivious as to what's going on.

"I—" Sale starts.

"And how did you hit him with your pathetic training score? You had to be at least—what?" He turns to Farrow. "Twenty-five meters away at the least, right? There is no way you could've hit him, Sale, not with anything below a six in training. Are you not telling us something?"

Her eyes flit from Naller to me, like she expects my help after attempting to kill me or something, to Farrow, to the roof and then back to Naller again. Obviously she's not telling us something. I know that. Naller knows that. Farrow knows that. We aren't stupid. But I don't know whether or not it'd be in her best interest to tell us.

Then again, judging by the way his hands are clenched and his eyes widened, it looks like Naller might just kill her either way.

"I found the knife in the silver wrappings," she sighs finally. "It wasn't for me though, I swear, because they were already opened. I didn't want to tell you because I thought you might take it away from me because of… well, you know." She looks away. "My _pathetic_ score. So I kept it. And I didn't mean to kill Keed, it was just instinct and I guess it was just… a lucky throw."

He looks doubtful; so does Farrow. Deep down, I'm certain we all know that she's lying. But it'd make me a hell of a hypocrite to jump on her for it, so I don't.

The thing is, I volunteered to save a poor, innocent family from my district. There's no doubt in anyone's mind that I hold a much brighter candle to the other contestants here than the other girls in my district. But now that I'm here I sort of kind of really want to get home to my own family. Seeing me like this must be absolutely terrible on them.

And maybe this lying thing will help. Who knows?

All I know is that if Sale is going to die right here, I won't stop Naller and my district partner from doing it.

"Sale," Farrow says mildly. "You understand that from our point of view, you look suspicious, don't you?"

She nods vigorously.

"And you know that looking suspicious gets people killed here, right?"

Her head bobs up and down some more.

"Then why in the world would you do it?"

There's a slight pause where her eyes wander around again. I can't meet them. I know that helping her would be a fatal move, but not helping her makes me feel horrible, considering I'm using nearly the same technique she is. But I can't. Living as a hypocrite is better than not living at all, isn't it?

Unexpectedly Sale bursts into tears. She sinks to the ground and covers her face with her hands, sobbing and hiccupping so loudly I think people on the other side of the arena might hear her. Farrow tries to comfort her but Naller looks on in silence, making eye contact with me just long enough so that I know he doesn't believe her whatsoever. I shrug, as if I'm still recovering from losing a year of my life.

"Please don't kill me," she hiccups. "Please, please don't kill me!"

"We're not killing you," Farrow says quietly, after some deliberation. "But if you're bullshitting us… we'll find out soon. And _then_—we will kill you."


	26. Rock, Paper, Scissors

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, or the following characters.**

**A/N: Thank you to everyone reading and reviewing, I appreciate it. :D**

**I've included a list at the end of this chapter not only of the surviving tributes, but because of the long hiatus thing, also a word that describes them to trigger your memories a bit. (Thanks to Realityshowfan!) I hope that helps!**

**Hope you enjoy, as well. :)**

**Bambi Zvoner's POV (FD9)**

Levve is my ally, but she doesn't prove to be good company. Whenever we travel she says nothing, but I can see her thinking. Hard. Almost like she can't prevent the whole thinking thing from happening even though she wants to.

Me—I try not to think. I try to stay in my own little world of nothingness. Nothing really happens in that world. There's just me, wandering aimlessly around a dark maze, trying not to pay attention to the girl that's wandering just as aimlessly beside me. My family's not watching and crying on the other end of a television. My district partner isn't dead. I didn't actually sort of cause Luna's death. There's only nothing.

I'd like to keep it this way, if only Levve wasn't so paranoid about her own district partner who is, unfortunately, not dead. Every slight sound, even if _I _made it, makes her jump. And then she goes into this panic mode where she constantly scratches at that scar on the back of her hand and tries to hide her quick breathing. It takes another ten minutes of nothing to get her out of this mode.

Eventually, after a lot more wandering, I hear the anthem play and the deaths are announced. It must be night. Not that you can really tell in here.

"I'll take first watch," Levve volunteers immediately plopping down right where she is in the tunnel we're in.

I don't object.

I just want this whole thing to be over with already.

I just want to go home.

**Kimberly Guerrant's POV (MD2)**

When we get back to the Cornucopia, half of our dynamite stock blown, Summer is leaning against it, picking at his teeth. I put on a glare and demand to know if he's eaten something. He says no, evidently bored, before casting a quick look at Angel and standing up straighter.

I'm certain she scares him. She sure scares me, anyways, especially after I woke up with a splitting headache from the dynamite she almost killed me with and a broken rib from where she kicked me to try and get me conscience again. Since I've woken up, my district partner hasn't spoken to me. She's been whispering with Peyton this entire time, about what I don't know, but I can't really breathe at the moment so I don't really care too much.

"The baby's got some shit broken," Angel informs Summer. She gestures to me and sits down on the ground against the Cornucopia with an arrow dipped in poison across her lap, folding her arms and shutting her eyes. "I'm sleeping first. I'll be up in four hours to take watch. Don't wake me."

All four of us fall silent, eyes on Angel, watching her fall deeper into sleep. Her chest begins to move up and down at a slower pace and, eventually, Peyton motions for all of us to huddle on the opposite side of the dark cavern.

But I feel like crying. I miss the sun. I miss light, all together. Why do I have to be stuck here in this depressing place, broken ribs, out of breath even though I haven't been running?

"Kim, stop groaning for a second. Broken ribs won't kill you so for now listen to me." I ignore her comment as we all lean in closer and Peyton's voice gets smaller. "District Seven Plus One needs to die."

Lia nods tentatively. Summer blinks. I scratch the back of my head and Peyton shushes me for it.

"I don't know…" Summer starts.

"Well, I do. And so does Lia." She pivots to stare at Lia. "Right?"

My district partner nods again and casts her stare to her shoes. I can't believe that we're barely a day into the Games and we're already conspiring to kill our ally. If Angel dies, then we'll only have four people left here! And one of them's Lia. And another's me. Does Peyton really think we'll be able to survive, just the four of us?

'Cause I sure don't.

"Peyton," I say mildly. "Let's put it off a while, okay? Let's just wait until more tributes die, and then maybe, you know—maybe we'll have a better chance then, anyways—"

"We'll all be dead by then, Kimberly. Look, you're either in or you're out." Her eyes penetrating me, she impatiently taps her foot and raises her eyebrows until they nearly touch her hairline. My natural reaction is to step back a foot away from her, but I know I can't, so instead I raise my eyebrows back to stall for time to reply.

If I don't back down, I risk death in a way that I can't even predict. If I do, then I risk losing my tough District Two Guy status, and someone might see through it. I don't really care if my allies do—they, and it gives me a sinking feeling alongside the pain from my broken ribs to think it, have to die in the long run anyhow—it's just the Gamemakers and sponsors that I'm worried about.

"Fine," I say. "I'm in." Quickly deciding to regain my composure, I set my jaw firmly and glance at Summer. "Are you in?"

He shrugs nonchalantly. We all take it as a yes.

On the outside, I'm glaring at my allies, squaring my shoulders and stalking back to the Cornucopia with which some would call confident swagger. On the inside, my heart is beating, blood thudding in my ears, and chest aching for some reason I can't quite figure out, but conclude that it must have something to do with the broken ribs.

"She'll be awake soon, I bet," Peyton whispers, gaze on Angel. "How will we do it?"

"P-poison," Lia comments.

Summer shrugs again.

I cross my arms to make them look bigger and take a wobbly breath. I'm slowly losing it—my breath, I mean. It has to have something to do with the aching that's developing in my chest right now, or the ribs situation, but I'm too bothered with trying not to look like I'm shaking to think much. I suck in a deeper breath and hold it but the pain gets worse, and all the air is somehow all at once whooshing out of me, and it feels like I've just run one of those marathons my mom forced me into before back in the district—

"Kim?" comes the distant voice of my district partner. "K-Kim? Are you ok-kay?"

I shake my head, wheezing. Clasping at my chest I run for the Cornucopia and fumble through the items to find a bottle of water.

"What the fuck is going on?" I hear Angel's voice, but I can't breathe, and my survival instincts are too strong to turn to look at her. "I told you NOT—TO—WAKE—ME!"

Something enters my back.

Temporarily, it makes the pain worse. There's now a burning in my spine along with the pounding in my chest and the lack of air in my body. At one point, before I feel myself fall and hear the thud the tank I have for a body makes as it hits the ground, I'm almost sure I hear something sizzling. It sounds like when Dylan from Four died—when Angel tore his skin off with those spikes soaked with poison.

But then, slowly, the pain subsides.

And I feel myself drifting away.

**Natalia DeGuzman's POV (FD7)**

The water's up to my knees.

Calla is feeling the walls, probably looking for a secret door she most likely won't find.

Luke is scuffling with a knife and digging it into the corner of the wall that just sealed us in here.

I'm dragging my feet slowly through the water, wondering why I'm not fighting like the two of them.

That's who I've been my entire life: a fighter. And when the time comes for a real, actual fight, that's clearly going to either make me or break me, all I do is let the water soak through my pants and shoes and watch my allies compete to survive.

You know, looking at all this water makes me thirsty. I haven't had anything to drink since just before Keed died. I scoop some up in my hands and drink it, and find that it's not salty or muddy or anything—it tastes good and fresh like the snow did. I drink a few more handfuls until I'm quenched, and then I stand up and look back to Calla and Luke.

"You're gonna break the knife, Twelve," I comment as Luke stabs the rock wall. As if it's helping us. "We'll need that for later if we get out of here."

"Do you have a better idea, Seven?"

"Well, no," I admit, watching the water level rise up to the middle of my thighs. "But there's gotta be one."

He sighs and stops and gives me death in the form of a glare. "Get us out of here, then."

I walk back and forth through the tunnel, trying to zone out the sounds of the water and Calla and Luke pushing through it. A way out of a blocked tunnel that's filling with water. I can't think of one. But it has to be somewhere. The Gamemakers wouldn't make this death trap without a semi-obvious escape because drowning in an underground maze thing doesn't seem like a very interesting way of death compared to what else is probably lurking around under here. Okay, Natalia, so _think_.

We clearly can't just push open the walls, or, as Luke proved, _cut_ them open.

Calla's still looking for a secret passage.

There're a couple bats fluttering above us, but I doubt they'll do us much good.

The only way I can see out of this is—

"Hey!"

I look over at the source of the voice—Luke—and see that the dim lighting in the cavern is reflecting off a shiny silver package. He rips it open and holds a stick of dynamite high in the air. He's about to drop the package into the water when Calla screams, "STOP!"

He stops.

"There has to be a match in there," she says. "Otherwise the dynamite's useless. Get it out and whatever you do, _do not get it wet._"

Luke digs around in the wrappings and I have a temptation to comment on his stupidity, but resist because I feel a pleasant tingling feeling take over me when he whips out one small match. We're saved! Someone saved us! All we have to do is ignite the dynamite…

My train of thought stops dead. How are we supposed to blow up a wall with dynamite when there's water around us? We either have to perfectly time the throw so as soon as it makes contact with the rock, it blows up, or one of us has to hold it there, waiting for it to.

"Don't light it yet," orders Calla. She makes hardly any noise stalking over to Luke. I think she's tiptoeing.

The water's up to my waist.

"Look. We have one shot at this. One shot to light the match right and one shot to blow this thing up. Natalia, try and find a placeholder in that wall where we could put the dynamite. Quick."

If it was anyone else aside from Calla ordering me around, I would object and refuse to do what she's asking. But Calla is Calla, and I know she's really only looking out for our alliance's best interest by taking the role of the leader. Even I recognize that if either Luke or I were the boss, we'd have more arguments during times like these than we need. Too many arguments to get out alive, probably.

I feel around the wall for the slightest crack or bump, but this wall is smooth. Almost like the Gamemakers planned it that way.

"Nothing."

Both of my allies swear.

"The other wall?"

By the time I'm done inspecting this one, the water's touching my bellybutton. "Still nothing."

"Okay." She sucks in a deep breath, swiping her sweaty brow and shoving some strands of blonde hair from her eyes. "Then… well, then, one of us has to hold the dynamite. We can't risk throwing it."

"I'll do it," both Luke and I say simultaneously.

We turn to face each other. "No," I say at the same time he does. "_I'll _do it."

Now we both pivot to stare at Calla, expecting her to make the decision.

She pushes back some hair again. "We don't have time for this. Sort it out. Fast. Or I'll just do it."

Not too sure why I'm so set on being the one to risk my life to get out of here—maybe because I feel like I have a lot to prove, especially to that stupid mentor Cherry I had; or maybe because I only want to because Luke does—I go, "Rock, paper, scissors? Best two out of three."

The water's rising so he doesn't have time to argue. On the first go he beats me with rock, but on the second I get him with scissors. As we're counting to three on the final one, I get a heavy sinking feeling in my stomach, like my heart dropped into it. Do I really want to do this? Do I really want to possibly die, right here and now? He's _volunteering_ to; I could back down and let him do the dirty work.

But then I realize that if I'm going to die in this place—which is very likely at this point, I know—I want to do it with dignity. If I'm gonna die, I'd choose dying to get my allies to safety over Angel torturing me to death. And I'm glad that I at least have that choice.

He chooses rock.

I choose paper.

Without hesitation, I grab the dynamite from Calla's hand and order her to light it. She doesn't hesitate, either. Just scratches the match against the wall, carefully, and then gingerly ignites the dynamite. Luke says something. I don't hear him. I just hear the pounding of the water and the sizzling of the flame.

Calla pulls my shirt over my head and I can hear her and Luke stepping back away from the wall. I hold the dynamite out as far as I can reach until part of the stick hits the rock. The wait is unbearable. Any moment now I'm either going to die or at least be hurt. Badly. Really,_ really_ badly. I take a moment to say goodbye to my sister and my mother, and, just before the explosion hits me, I squint my eyes shut and ask my mentor aloud how she likes me now.

**Birch Coleo Jernehy's POV (MD11)**

I don't know where we are. I don't know if we've been here before. But I know that after the cart crashed into District Six and almost ran over Nan, we started running and didn't stop, luckily this time not falling off any cliffs. The only delay we've had is that I've had to carry Nan because she's starting to get woozy from the wound in her leg that Six gave her.

"Birch, stop, you're tired."

I wanna object, but I can't. I _am_ tired. So just before I collapse panting I put her down gently on the ground. Trey sits beside me against the wall.

"What are we going to do?"

I turn to look at Trey. He blinks at me, glancing to Nan briefly enough that I realize he's talking about her, and I shrug although I know we can't put it off any longer. She's bleeding. She's woozy. The best we've done is wrapped part of Trey's shirt around her leg, but that doesn't seem to be helping much.

"We have to go to the Cornucopia," he whispers. I don't think the tone is really necessary though; Nan is already fast asleep against the wall beside me. While he speaks her head lolls onto my shoulder. "She's part of our alliance so we can't let her die."

I suppress a groan, even if I do realize that I was thinking the exact same thing a second before. "Trey, first of all, it'd be impossible to make our way back to the Cornucopia. Second of all, say that we did find it; how do you think we could fight off all those careers?"

"We sleep now," he says, "and then we go when they're out hunting. It's dark in there and I can try and throw my knife at the one guarding. Us three equal at least one career. We can take whoever it is."

"What if it's Angel?"

"We both know it won't be."

I hear myself sigh. I haven't done that in a while—sigh—and if I have then I can't remember hearing it. It's a pretty depressing sound, actually. I wish the hearing enhancement only let me hear things I wanted to, not things that confirm what I already know—that surviving this is a hopeless case for us three no matter which way you put it.

"Well, we can't tell her." I jerk my head in Nan's direction. "She won't let us."

"I know."

Another sigh. "Okay… I guess so, then. But how do we get back there?"

"We'll go back the way we came the best we can. The Gamemakers want action, anyways, so I don't think it'll be real hard."

We're interrupted suddenly by the anthem. I look around for a second for the Panem seal, but a voice starts echoing through the tunnel announcing that the Capitol is proud to present the 175th Hunger Games, and the deaths of the day. Both from District One, the guy from Two, and a tribute from both Four, Nine, Ten and Eleven. Which means… there're still… seventeen of us left.

…Yeah. I don't think we'll have troubles finding the Cornucopia.

**Surviving Tributes:**

**District One: None**

**District Two:**

**Lia Kingston – Timid.**

**District Three:**

**Anna-Marie Schleben – Conscientious. **

**Farrow Alliyatt – Leader.**

**District Four:**

**Peyton Bieda – Lively. **

**District Five:**

**Nan Weatherall – Friendly.**

**Summer Whitesell - Quiet. **

**District Six:**

**Levve Morton – Book smart.**

**Mick Revelain – One track-minded. **

**District Seven:**

**Natalia DeGuzman – Feisty. **

**Trey Lancaster – Adorable. **

**District Eight:**

**Angel Kramer – Evil.**

**Naller Mahlon Versteeg – Loyal.**

**District Nine:**

**Bambi Zvoner – Sweet. **

**District Ten:**

**Sale Stride – Sneaky. **

**District Eleven:**

**Birch Coleo Jernehy – Optimistic. **

**District Twelve:**

**Calla Lilly Warbucks – Withdrawn.**

**Luke Cove – Jokester. **


	27. Homicidally Inclined

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games or the following characters.**

**A/N: To all the people I haven't PMed back yet: I'm going to get to that soon, I swear. D:**

**Thank you to all that have been reading and reviewing. :) The next chapter should be up sooner than usual, because I have it all planned… I hope.**

**Happy holidays, everyone!**

**Trey Lancaster's POV (MD7)**

When the tunnel we're in begins to narrow, I know that we've been here before. I can see a huge scratch in the wall beside us that just keeps going. That's where Mick from Six dug his knife into it before attacking Nan. This is where that cart almost killed her. I wonder if anyone's been here since we have.

Birch is giving her a piggyback, but Nan's passed out again. After we took a few hours of rest in the middle of a tunnel Birch declared that we should keep moving—as in towards the Cornucopia—and I agreed. But every time we turn a corner or step out of a really dark tunnel or hear even just a rock drop from the ceiling I think back to that tape I watched on the train to the Capitol, the one with the boy torturing another guy to death and laughing while he did it.

I shudder.

"How much longer, do you think?" I ask Birch. He shrugs. I palm the knife in my hand as we continue to walk. I've only used it once, and it's already on the verge of breaking; Mick's knife was bigger and it almost tore my blade right off.

"What will we do with her when we get there?" He shrugs in response again and lifts Nan higher up on his back. I don't question him anymore. He's been quieter since we've decided to go to the Cornucopia and risk everything for Nan, and I've tried to get some words out of him, but every time I've failed. He's immersed in his own little world. Though, that's fine by me. He probably just needs some time alone.

I know the feeling, living with seven people. That's why sometimes I camp out in the forest behind my house where my dad and my mom and older sister work during the day if things start to get a little too crowded. Absent-mindedly, I touch my token, a locket with a picture of my entire family. I miss them. Even if they can be a little too much now and then, I really do miss them. I hope they know it.

We walk some more, and then even more. We stop only once when a sponsor gift falls from a hole in the roof. It contains a small medicine kit—a small bandage, a tiny bottle of the stuff that I think keeps out infections—but it's _so_ tiny I think two or three sprays and it'll all disappear—and some wrappings and a little roll of tape. Birch sets Nan down and shakes her awake.

"Nan," he says and holds up the medicine kit. "This is for you. What do we do?"

She blinks dreamily a couple times, examining the supplies. "Unwrap my leg and spray it with that. Then wrap it with that. Use the tape to hold it. Save the bandage for later."

As soon as Birch unwraps the piece of shirt we used to stop the blood flow I want to turn away, except I don't because Nan is looking at me and I don't want to scare her. Dried blood is caked around the wound, which looks sort of swollen, and the area around it is blue and black. There's dirt everywhere. We haven't had water to wash it off, because what little water we've been drinking has come from the condensation off the roof and a minuscule canteen we got sent to supply all three of us earlier. He hesitantly sprays it twice, once to the top and once to the bottom, and Nan flinches.

"That stung," she says, forcing out a laugh that quivers. I sit beside her and pat her shoulder a few times.

Once Birch is done, she stands up, announcing that she can walk on her own, though using the wall for support and hopping on one foot. Birch will end up carrying her soon enough.

"Will your leg be okay?" I ask.

"Well, he got the muscle," she winces.

Birch and I exchange a look. I don't think either of us knows what that means.

"Is that worse than… uh, not getting the muscle?"

She looks like she wants to smile, but physically can't. "I don't know. I guess. It hurts a lot more. Um… and I think it might be infected. That spray won't do much now."

"Are you going to die?" I question, shocked. I know from watching the past Games just how much damage an infection can do.

"I hope not." She gives another feeble smile.

As soon as she has her back turned, I look at Birch and Birch looks at me. "Still the Cornucopia?" I mouth.

He nods.

**Natalia DeGuzman's POV (FD7)**

I'm not dead.

Not yet.

I'm burned, though. Badly. And the wall collapsed on me. So I'm in pretty bad pain and shape right now.

Maybe we would be able to rest, too, if Luke wasn't so adamant about getting to the Cornucopia to help me. No sponsors have chipped in and sent something for the cuts; just the burns. And it only seems to help the teeniest bit it possibly could. Aside from that, we don't have any medical supplies.

When we were walking, Calla burst into tears and apologized roughly a hundred times because she saw this as all her fault. Luke just kept stalking forwards even though we've no idea where the Cornucopia is.

"I'm okay. We don't need to find the Cornucopia."

"Bullshit."

I glare at Luke. He and Calla both are carrying either side of me, because I can't walk on my own. "You're willing to put us all at more risk—" I pause to grind my teeth against the aching throughout my body. I know I shouldn't be moving right now, because it has to be making everything worse, but I'm not going to die lying down or show my allies and the Capitol any weakness. "—just for me? Our whole alliance could die, right now, Luke, because of you."

"I agree with him, Natalia."

She doesn't look at me. I don't know if she could if she wanted to.

"Then put me down," I demand. "I'm not letting you do this."

"This isn't a time to be your stupid stubborn self, you idiot," Luke says.

"I said to _put_ _me down!_ I'm not going to let both of you die just after I saved us. Do you know how selfish you sound?" I start dragging my feet against the floor in an attempt to get them to stop carrying me and flail my arms. "Put me _down!_"

Calla ducks as I almost hit her across the head and Luke spins me around and holds my shoulders out at arms-length, staring steadily at me. "Shut the fuck up. You're going to die by the end of today unless we get you some medicine and bandages. The expensive stuff that we'll probably only find at the Cornucopia. Don't always act so tough and proud when you should hardly be standing."

"I'm _fine_—"

"The only reason you're alive right now, Natalia, is because the water stopped the explosion from ripping off all of your skin," Calla cuts me off. "But some of those cuts and burns are bound to get infected, and when that happens, you won't last very long."

I refuse to believe that I'm going to die. They're wrong, and besides, even if do die without whatever shit they want to get from the Cornucopia, there's a good chance the careers will kill them—because let's face it, they don't have a slim chance against any of them, except maybe the District Two girl—and then I'll just be dead for absolutely no good reason.

"The supplies might not even be there," I mutter through clenched teeth at Luke.

He pushes me against the wall. My back throbs in intense pain, but I'm glaring so hard I doubt it even shows. "We are going to the Cornucopia," he tells me. "And we will get the medicine that will save you. Whether you like it or not."

I ponder only briefly over why he's so resolute on the subject—but only briefly. The hurting doesn't allow me to think straight, especially not when shoved against a gravely wall.

I try looking to Calla for support, but her arms are crossed and she's nodding in agreement.

"I don't _care_ if I die, you guys!" I lie. Of course I care if I die. Everyone cares if they die no matter how much they won't admit it aloud, except maybe for someone like Angel. She doesn't seem to have a problem with death. "If I die I know it's because I did something good for someone else."

"We care if you die."

I roll my eyes at Luke. "Yeah, because you've sure showed that."

"We're your allies, Natalia, what do you want us to do here?"

"I don't know." I quickly think up another excuse. "Honour my last wish. Which is to let me die."

But I can see that neither of them is ready to budge any time soon. Luke raises his eyebrows and taps his foot. Calla awkwardly scratches her arm and cracks her knuckles.

I sigh in exasperation. I'm too tired to argue anymore. And this wall is actually really hurting my back.

"Fine," I say.

**Summer Whitesell's POV (MD5)**

Angel kills Kim with her stupid poison arrows, another one of our allies dead. Peyton, Lia and I stay quiet, but I know what we're all thinking: Peyton was right. District Seven Plus One has to die.

If we don't kill her soon, she'll just pick us all off, one by one, because I'm sure she doesn't need us in here. I know that, and I'm positive that she knows it, too, probably better than I do. By morning, after I've helped Peyton drag Kim's body out of our cave, and we watch the ground open up and suck him in like a makeshift hovercraft, I realize that I'm probably going to be stuck with guard duty again since Angel clearly doesn't trust Peyton whatsoever and Lia is simply not an option. Until, at least, Seven Plus One goes, "We stay at the Cornucopia today. It will be easy to pick people off in tunnels when they're asleep."

Peyton furrows her brow but says nothing about it. Lia, as per usual, stares at the floor. I rightly stay quiet. At least I won't be stuck here alone all day.

"Five, get some sleep now, because if you fall asleep on guard duty tonight I'll tear you the hell apart myself."

Wow. Great.

I have to pull at my leather cuff to remind myself why I'm here, and why I'll be here to the very end. My brothers. I want to avenge my brothers. When I win, it'll be for my brothers. Not for my father; definitely not for the father who caused Vance and Eric's deaths, even if some part of me, deep inside, does want to prove to him I _am_ worth something. So no matter how annoying I find this so-called 'career pack' of four people—only one of which of them is normal, with some mild potential—I know I have a better chance with them than out there by myself. Despite the fact that our leader is psychotic.

Besides, if I left now, I have no doubt Angel would hunt me down and kill me slowly.

**Levve Morton's POV (FD6)**

We're walking, walking, walking, and that's all we're doing. I don't know if I can walk for any longer without losing my mind. How much more time do we have until we run into another tribute? How much more time do I have until Mick finds me and tortures me and kills me?

"Stop being so paranoid. You're making me paranoid," Bambi informs me as we walk, walk, and walk. I haven't drunk anything since yesterday. My throat's burning. Bambi has told me we'll encounter some water soon—there's gotta be some in this place or the tributes wouldn't be able to survive—but I'm finding it harder to believe as we continue on. All I've seen is rock. And it's extremely depressing.

I haven't bothered explaining to Bambi why my district partner is out to get me, because I think that'd just make our situation worse. She would_ actually_ be as paranoid as me, then. Besides, whenever the Gamemakers find out about me and Mick's little conflict I'm sure they'll throw us together just to get some "Ohh's" and "Ahh's" from the Capitol audience.

"So, Levve," she says out of the silence. I jump a little. "Tell me about yourself."

I shrug. "What do you want to know?"

She shrugs back. "Anything. How'd you get that scar?"

I notice that I'm scratching at the back of my hand. "I fell down the stairs when I was younger," I explain.

"Ouch."

"Yepp."

Pause.

"What's your family like?" she asks.

"Uh, it's okay, I guess. We're pretty well-off. Really well-off, compared to some of the other people in these Games. My parents are nice but I'm not real close with them. But I wish I could've been. What's your family like?"

She gives a laugh, but it's a little sarcastic and completely empty. "My mom isn't sane. Once she was, and apparently she was beautiful and caring and everything, according to my dad, since I can't remember all the way back then. But then her best friend died in the Games. She has nervous breakdowns a lot about me ending up in here. For good reason." Then she outstretches her arms as if to go, _Because here I am._

I just go, "Oh," because I don't know what else to say.

Another pause.

I decide it's my turn to break it. "Any brothers and sisters?"

"Nope. Just me."

"Yeah, ditto."

It's actually really awkward talking to Bambi like this, and I realize at one point it's just going to give and we'll be walking in a void quiet again. Maybe we should both make it easier and less awkward and shut up now.

"I'll tell you about _my_ family, Levve."

I turn to look at Bambi quizzically because her voice has suddenly dropped a few pitches, and she turns to look at me as if she's thinking the same thing. It takes me a moment to realize that neither of us spoke those words. Bambi spins around on her heel to stare behind her, opens her mouth to say something, but the deep voice interrupts her. I'm scratching furiously at the back of my hand and am on the balls of my feet, ready to run, except I don't know which direction he's in and I don't want to run straight into my homicidally inclined district partner.

"My family may as well be dead. Do you know how that feels, Levve? Do you?"

Oh. My. God. Oh my God. Oh my _God_, he's here, he's here, and I am about to die.

I breathe in and out. In, out. I just have to stay calm, right? I mean, he's only human, like me…

The voice comes from the darkness again. "Maybe you won't know the feeling. But I'll make sure that your family will."

I'm up against this wall so hard the rock is digging into my palms. Bambi's head is swivelling back and forth, like she's trying to tell where he is, and my brain is whirring. He's here. Mick is here. I can't let him catch me, because if I do, I don't know if I can fight back, mentally or physically. My increased upper-body strength won't help me against the guilt building up in my mind. All I can do is run. And if that isn't enough—

Then I'm dead as his sister.

"Mick," I start, but I don't exactly know where I'm going with it, so I clamp my mouth shut.

There's an unbearable, pregnant calm, almost peaceful really, and Bambi starts edging towards one side of the tunnel with me in her wake.

And that's when he lunges.

Bambi's shriek echoes through the tunnel. I want to scream as he jumps at me from the other side of the open space, but I feel frozen in my place. My feet refuse to move. My mouth hangs open. My arms are glued to my sides. This is it? This can't be it. But I see him running—moving so fast his feet are hardly touching the ground. And I can see the knife glinting in his hand. This _is_ it. This is most definitely it. And I know, then, that I'm dead. I am dead. I am so, so dead.

"_Levve!_ _MOVE!_"

It must be Bambi that shoves me from behind and sends me tumbling to a heap on the ground at his feet just before Mick's knife is able to cut deep into my chest. The fall, however slow it seems, knocks some sense into me. I need to move. I need to run. That's all I can do. And I have to do it. Now.

So I roll over and he stumbles over my legs, falling over me and in front of Bambi who looks just as stunned as I do. But he gets up so fast I barely comprehend what's happening, and, ignoring Bambi's incoherent screams, I flee down the tunnel unaware of where I'm going. I can hear his footsteps behind me. I can hear his heavy breathing. I hope that maybe Bambi will run in the other direction so Mick won't get her, too, but suddenly he's jumping right on me and breaking my train of thought, and, with his entire weight pressed against my back, both of us fall, me face-planting and hitting my head hard on the ground.

Just as suddenly as he was on me, he's off me, and Bambi's attacking him and trying to whip his wrist so the knife falls out of his hand. Instead, he ends up getting a good stab at her arm, and she cries out and falls back. He comes back at me again.

I keep running while the blood from bashing my head on the ground drips into my mouth. I can't run for much longer; I'm already panting and out of breath. He has something much more to run for than I do, because revenge is really the only thing pushing him through this. I'm only running for my life. Which is sure to be lost at one point or another down here, anyways.

I'm about to give up, to let him just kill me already and get it over with, when I hear something heavy move and scrape against the floor behind me, and everything abruptly goes pitch black.

**Surviving Tributes:**

**District One: None**

**District Two:  
Lia Kingston**

**District Three:  
Anna-Marie Schleben  
Farrow Alliyatt**

**District Four:  
Peyton Bieda**

**District Five:  
Nan Weatherall  
Summer Whitesell **

**District Six:  
Levve Morton  
Mick Revelain**

**District Seven:  
Natalia DeGuzman  
Trey Lancaster **

**District Eight:  
Angel Kramer  
Naller Mahlon Versteeg**

**District Nine:  
Bambi Zvoner **

**District Ten:  
Sale Stride**

**District Eleven:  
Birch Coleo Jernehy**

**District Twelve:  
Calla Lilly Warbucks  
Luke Cove **


	28. Sacrifices

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or these characters.**

**A/N: It's a bit longer than usual. Woo. :) Hope it makes up for the wait.**

**Thank you to all my readers and reviewers out there!**

**Luke Cove's POV (MD12)**

We're going to die.

There isn't just one career, like we thought there would be, standing over and watching the Cornucopia. There're four if you count Lia. Thanks to the enhanced hearing, I know these things.

I know that Peyton and Summer and Angel could easily take the Threes' alliance by themselves, so for us, it doesn't mean anything good.

But Calla is determined. I'm determined. I don't want my ally to die… even if that ally may be Natalia. It's not like I actually _hate_ her or anything, like I say I do. She can just be a little too stubborn sometimes.

Though I'm going to bet Natalia will die soon, even with medicine. She's already in rough shape. I don't think she could walk on her own if she wanted to—which she does, but neither Calla nor I are letting her. Our only choice will be to leave her around the corner where the careers can't see her and go in ourselves. And she doesn't look very happy about that plan.

"I'll help you guys," she says, trying to stand up from the place we put her.

"We're better off without you. We'll definitely die if we have to watch your back the entire time," I inform her. "Besides, if the careers kill you, then what was the point of going to the Cornucopia in the first place?"

She mumbles something incoherent about us dying while the reason she's dying is because she saved us, but me and my district partner ignore her and I clutch my knife in my sweaty hand. Calla will rush to the Cornucopia and grab a bow and arrow. I'll have to throw my knife at whoever tries to hurt her, but I've only got one shot, considering I've only got one knife. Anyways, by the time she has the bow and arrow I'm sure we'll be fine. She got an eight in training for it.

_If _she can get the bow and arrow.

"Guys," Natalia says one last time. "You don't have to do this. I'm serious."

I almost want to concur and turn around and leave. There are so many things I haven't done in my life. I've never really had a best friend, or a girlfriend, or even a first kiss—but if you tell anyone that I'll deny it. I haven't fully grown-up just yet. I'm not close with my family since my sister died—my parents blame me for not volunteering for her, and if you asked them, it's my fault she died in that arena. I don't know if they know that I love them, because I say I don't more than I tell them I do.

"Yes, we do have to do this," Calla argues. "Shut up."

She sighs and leans against the wall. She looks like she's in pain. And if I didn't know better, I'd say she was crying. Her eyes look glassy.

She doesn't stand up to say goodbye to either of us, but she does thank us.

And then we're walking down the tunnel.

**Trey Lancaster's POV (MD7)**

We're here. Birch stopped us because he heard a voice around the corner, and then gave a significant nod to me. I knew what it meant. The Cornucopia was there. _Right_ there. Right around the corner. Right about now, we're either going to live or die.

"Nan, wait here," Birch says, putting her down against the wall. I told'ya he'd end up carrying her. She's drowsy and can't really tell what's going on, but I guess that's better for us. "Don't move whatever you do."

"And if someone comes down the tunnel, take this." I hand her my old, nearly broken knife. It _is_ nearly broken, but it's better than nothing, I'd say. Plus, I got a new knife from a sponsor. It isn't a lot bigger or better than the one Nan's holding, but it's newer and therefore stronger, and if I need anything going into the lair of the careers, then it'd be this. "Don't hesitate to stab them."

"Where are you going?" she mumbles.

"To get some bats for food," Birch lies skilfully. "You're hungry, aren't you?"

She nods, and we leave it at that. We can't prolong it any longer. If we wait the realization of what we're doing might end up sinking in and I might end up too scared to go.

Birch and I tiptoe down the tunnel, me in the front because I'm the one with the knife. Our plan is for me to cause a diversion while Birch runs and grabs the stuff from the Cornucopia. He'll grab a weapon, too, and then help me kill off whatever career's waiting. We're almost to the corner, when Birch stops.

"Trey," he whispers. "There's more than one."

I blink. "Huh?"

"There's more than one career there. Sounds like they're fighting."

"Verbally?"

He listens some more. "No." Then he frowns. "Wait, there has to be at least five people in there. How many careers are left?"

"Four."

We stare at each other.

"They might not even notice us," he decides quickly. "Plan aborted. Let's get this over with."

**Luke Cove's POV (MD12)**

Angel is the first to see me. She stands up, grinning, and I take a step further into the cave. In the middle, I can see the Cornucopia. Peyton and Lia are still on the ground, talking, but when Peyton sees me she stands to her feet.

"What district is he from?" Angel asks, referring to me.

"Twelve," Lia tells her.

Angel cracks her knuckles and bends down to pick up her bow and arrow. Some sort of liquid is dripping off the arrows. Ten bucks it's poison. "Well, I was hoping for something a little more challenging. But he'll do."

I get my knife ready and my feet in the right position so I can take off running as soon as Calla comes in. I have to do it at the exact right time or shit. Shit. Shit. I'm going to die.

As soon as I hear her footsteps behind me I start to run. Angel pulls back her bow and arrow and aims it at me, but Calla bursts into the room and overlaps me, running in the opposite direction, and Angel's momentarily frozen, switching her aim from me to Calla and then back to me. It's given Calla enough time to reach the side of the Cornucopia Angel and Lia and Peyton can't see, grab a dagger, and fruitlessly throw it over at Peyton.

It clutters to the floor beside her. She purses her lips, like she's trying not to laugh.

But by then Calla's dug deep enough to find a bow and a bucket of arrows, and she aims one straight at the Four, whose expression goes from humoured to stunned within half a second.

I'm still standing there, holding my knife, with Angel's poisoned arrow pointed at my heart. But Eight's head's focused on Calla, who's pointing her arrow at Peyton. Lia's standing there, in the middle of it all, solid as the half torn-down statue we have of President Mullen in my district, half-bent over and reaching for the dagger that Calla threw.

"Kill her," Angel says. Calla blinks and looks at her.

"Huh?"

"Kill her. Kill Four. If you kill her, I won't kill him." She jerks her head in my direction, a smirk growing on her lips. "If you kill her I'll let you two out of here, totally unharmed." She pauses, like she's considering what she just said. "Well… maybe. But it doesn't look like you have any other offers, so…"

She lets her sentence trail off.

Peyton's just shaking her head at Angel, like she can't believe her. Lia's still folded in half. I wonder where Summer is, when Peyton lets out a shriek that answers my unsaid question. "_SUMMER!_"

I can hear a scuffling from the other side of the cave, and when I look over, I see Nan's district partner sleeping in between two tunnels leading out from here. Slowly, he wakes up, sees me and Calla, and blinks a couple times.

"Get over here," Peyton calls casually. "Come on. Wake-y wake-y. We have guests."

Angel doesn't look bothered. "Kill her," she urges Calla. Her voice is slowly turning into a hiss. "_Kill her_."

Summer walks over, without a weapon, but he doesn't seem deterred or threatened by us. He yawns and rakes a hand through his hair. "Why are we killing Peyton?"

I raise my arm to make an attempt at throwing the knife, but at a twitch of my finger Angel's head snaps back in my direction. I swallow and lower my arm again. She looks away.

"Angel says if they kill me, she'll let them go," Peyton updates Summer. She picks at a cuticle on her thumb.

"Hey," he says, "sounds fair to me. Sacrifice an ally and let two people you're going to have to kill anyways go. Makes sense."

Either Angel doesn't hear him or doesn't care, because she's now glaring at Calla. "I'll give you thirty seconds to decide. When that thirty seconds is over, either she will be dead, or both of you will be dead."

Deep down, I know that Calla won't kill Peyton. Or, maybe she will, but it's going to take a lot for her to do it. I've known her for less than a month, so how am I supposed to know what she can and can't do, anyways? She looks briefly to me, but I really don't have an answer for this one, so I shrug and ignore the way Angel's glare is now directed at me.

In the midst of all this, Summer rummages through the Cornucopia, pulls out a bag of beef jerky, and sits down across from Peyton and begins to eat.

"Lia," he says, slapping the piece of ground beside him. "Care to join me?"

Walking still in that half-bent-over position probably because she's scared of getting stuck in the crossfire, which almost makes me laugh out loud, she plops down beside him, whispering something that I can't really catch, even with my hearing enhancement. Looking straightforward, he nods. She takes a piece of meat from him, nibbles on it, and looks intently at Angel.

"Fifteen seconds," Angel says to Calla.

"Pey," Lia says quietly. "S-seven p-plus one."

The hell? Seven plus one? Maybe I have no clue what that means but Peyton clearly does, because she gives a thumbs up in their direction and stretches her arms over her head. I hope it doesn't have anything to do with Calla. But I can't see how it could. Unless either Lia or Summer assisted her in grabbing a weapon to kill my district partner or something, but even they're too far away from the Cornucopia to do that within ten seconds.

Scratch that, nine seconds.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Calla squints her eyes shut and pulls back her arrow. She releases it and lets the arrow fly.

Peyton ducks and it bounces harmlessly off the Cornucopia. Calla reloads and starts to round the Cornucopia. Peyton rolls to the side, grabbing the dagger.

"SHE HAS A DAGGER!" I scream, because I feel like I've really been no help up until now. "CALLA, SHE HAS A DAGGER!"

"Shut up, Twelve," Angel orders.

Calla flings her hand into the Cornucopia and takes out two backpacks, pulling one around her back and one around her front, and sticking a bottle of something into her pocket. But by then Peyton's disappeared from my view around to Calla's side, and Calla screams and her head vanishes out of my sight as she falls. Peyton's pulled her down there, I know it.

And then, silence.

I run to her.

"NO!" Summer shouts. I think at me. "STOP!"

But I'm not listening to him; I keep going.

I'm starting to wonder why Angel hasn't sent the arrow at me yet. I mean, I barely lifted my arm when she was looking in the other direction, and she saw. You'd think booking it to the Cornucopia would get her attention and maybe cause her to kill me. So that's why I turn around and see that Natalia's entered the equation, coming from the tunnel Calla and I emerged from, using the side of the entrance for support.

I cuss.

"LEAVE, SEVEN!" I yell at her. "LEAVE!"

"YOU'RE BOTH GOING TO DIE!" she yells back, and I can see that Angel's arrow is now pointed at her. Vaguely, I'm able to make out that Eight is smiling.

"Twelve, turn around. Now. Fast."

The voice comes from the other side of the Cornucopia, but it isn't Calla's, so it doesn't have any affect on me.

"Turn around, Luke." I recognize this one as Calla almost instantly. "Stop," she says. I stop, glancing briefly to Natalia and Angel, who are having an exchange of words I can't hear. "Good. Now go."

Angel's pulling back her arrow, and I stop, debating what to do. _The fuck is going on? _I'm so confused. Calla is behind there. I can't tell if she's dying. But Natalia is about to die, and Calla told me to turn around, and I have to stop debating this in my head and just make a decision already—

I sprint back in Natalia's direction, feeling Summer and Lia's eyes following me back and forth with mild interest as if they're watching a ping-pong game. Just as Angel's arrow leaves the bow, I jump, and shove Natalia out of the way. I think that the arrow whizzed right over us when I feel something puncture my leg, and when I fall on the ground on top of Natalia and that leg, I feel it push deeper through. Instantaneously, it begins to burn. I clutch at the arrow and rip it from my leg; screaming in pain and hearing Natalia profusely spout swearwords.

"You're an idiot," she says, staring at the wound. "You're such a freaking idiot. Why would you do that? I had it under control."

"You were about to die," I mutter through clenched teeth. Holy shit, it's burning. What kind of poison was that? "You did _not_ have it under control."

Angel seems satisfied with her work, and spins around on her heel and walks over to where Summer and Lia are sitting. "Where's what's-her-face and what's-her-face?" I hear her ask, but then Natalia's saying, "Oh my God. You jackass. You're dying. You're freaking dying. This is my fault, and you're dying. Oh my _God_," which brings me back to my own situation.

I'm dying?

I'm dying.

"I'm not dying," I argue, but the burning in my leg says otherwise. Natalia is standing up and starting to run to the Cornucopia, but I reach out and grab her ankle and send her tumbling onto her face. "Stay here. If I'm dying then I'm dying, that's it."

She pushes herself up on her hands and knees, looks at me for a second, and then covers her face with her hands and abruptly bursts into tears.

"You jackass. You jackass. You absolute jackass—"

"Shut up." I don't like seeing people cry. It makes things awkward.

"I can't believe you did that. You're an idiot. You are _such_ an idiot—"

"_Shut up_," I repeat, still grinding my teeth together, because I don't want to show her just how much my freaking leg is freaking burning. "Natalia, shut up."

"No, I won't shut up." She hiccups. "You're dying! And it's my fault. Everything's my fault. You idiot, it's your fault that everything's my fault—"

It doesn't feel like I'm dying. I mean, sure, my leg's burning like it's entered hell, but that's about it. It just hasn't sunk in yet. I think back to all those things I haven't gotten to do. Grow up, come out of my shell, admit to someone that humour is just a cover for all my insecurities. Natalia's still sitting there, crying and calling me names, so I decide since I won't see her again anyways I may as well cross something off my list.

I sit up, rip her hands away from her face, and kiss her.

Really, it's nothing special. Maybe it could be if my leg wasn't in such pain— pain that's now spreading to my entire body. But at least now I can say I've had my first kiss.

…Okay, so, I don't know who I'll say that to anymore, but you know.

And, as a bonus, she shuts up.

Neither of us actually says anything after that. I lie back down on my back and shut my eyes, accepting the pain now and accepting that I'm going to die. "Hey, Mom and Dad, I love you," I announce. "And Natalia, if you don't get your ass up and leave, I will haunt you until the day you die. Which will probably be, like, today if you don't."

Somewhere in the distance, I hear a fight break out. I can hear a sword against a sword and an arrow cutting through the air. I can hear Natalia beginning to cry again.

But that's the last thing I hear.

**Trey Lancaster's POV (MD7)**

By the time we get into the room, too many things are going on for me to pick out the main one. A cannon's already gone, and I think that's for the boy in the corner who isn't moving. My district partner is crying over his body, so it must be Twelve. I turn away and look to the Cornucopia. My eyes focus on Angel, who is swinging her fists at the Five boy, who ducks and dodges all her hits.

"Get the stuff and get out," I say to Birch, and the two of us slowly inch towards the center of the room. Nobody's noticed us yet. Maybe nobody will.

Or maybe I'm a little too optimistic.

We're about ten feet away from the Cornucopia when the girl from Four, who's helping Five fend off Eight, turns and catches my eye. For a minute, I think that she's going to give me away, or kill me, or something, but instead she blocks a kick for Five and goes back to fighting her own battle.

We edge our way around so we're out of sight of Angel, but on this side we also encounter the female Twelve, Calla, I think, and the girl from Two. They're circling each other each with a bow and arrow. Calla has two backpacks on, which is weighing her down, and Two looks nervous and her hands are shaking. Her gaze keeps bouncing back and forth to random places.

"I can't find any medical stuff," Birch says to me, bringing my eyes back to him. He's digging through the stuff in the Cornucopia. "Trey, there's nothing in here. All of the backpacks are gone. Except this one." He holds it up for me to see, with his head still out of sight. "But it only has food. We'll take it anyways."

I grab it from him and shrug it on. I look at Calla again. And her two bags.

"She has them."

"What?"

"Birch, look, she has them."

He does.

"How are we going to get them when she has a bow and arrow?"

"Get me another knife."

After a few more moments of looking in the Cornucopia, he hands me a short, curved knife. I palm it. It's better than my sponsor one.

"Okay. I'm going to hit Two first. Then Twelve's weapon. You get a backpack. And we run."

He nods.

I throw the knife at District Two's leg. I don't know if I could live with myself, or die as myself, if I actually killed someone in the arena. She stares at me, stumbling backwards, like she's wondering where I came from. Then she falls. As soon as she sees my knife wedged into her leg she scrambles to the Cornucopia for something to cover the wound with. And before Twelve can shoot her, I throw my sponsor knife at the string of her bow, which snaps and the arrow that was in it clatters onto the ground.

As Calla looks at me, she looks pained. She doesn't wanna kill me. I don't wanna kill her. But the Capitol demands otherwise.

While she looks at me, Birch, who is much stronger than I am—he's told me just how much climbing up trees and picking fruit he's done in his life—runs at her and chops her throat with the side of his hand. He's her height so it doesn't look like he struggles physically, but mentally I can tell that it's straining him. Just before she falls onto the ground, her blonde hair covering face, he swings his leg up and kicks her between the eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I wouldn't hit a girl normally, I swear."

Her head hits the floor hard and she's knocked unconscious. I hope she doesn't die. If she does, it'll be our fault. But I force my thoughts back to my actual ally, Nan, waiting for us to come back with some bats for food. She's going to die from infection without medicine. And we need to get her that medicine. Even if it means kicking a girl we don't know unconscious.

"Get the backpack," I whisper. My voice shakes.

He flips her over on her back after searching the first backpack and emerging with no medical supplies. He searches the second and, finding an entire medical kit, takes it out and shoves it into the bag on my back. "If she doesn't die," he says, "I think she'll need the food."

I don't argue. There isn't time to. We need to get out of here before Two gets back from the other end of the Cornucopia or Angel spots us.

We take off racing for the exit we left Nan behind. I've never run this fast in my entire life. My arms are moving just as speedily as my legs because they're trying to propel me further, and I can feel my breath quick and sharp. But it doesn't matter if I'm out of breath. I have to keep going. Keep going, Trey, keep going…

I feel my locket bouncing along the crook below my neck, and I _know_ I have to keep going. My family won't watch me die. They can't watch me die. I love them too much and they love me, and I won't let them—

"TREY!"

I look at Birch for a split second, but it's enough time for me to understand what's happening. I peek over my shoulder and see the head of an arrow shooting straight at me.

"MOVE!" he screams. I don't have the time for it. It hits me. Right in the throat.

Pain spurts through me. I fall. I can't breathe. Every part of me is burning. I taste my own blood. I can't find air. Where did all the air go?

I hear Birch scream. That's all I hear. And it sounds like it's echoing from the other side of the room, even if I can see him crouching right beside me on his knees.

But I know that if he stays like that, he'll get hit by an arrow, and then, in extension, Nan will die, too.

They can't die. Not just because I did.

"Go," I spit out. I grasp my locket in my hand and rip it off my neck, holding it tightly between my hands and close to my heart. My family's in that locket. They may not be here, but they're with me, I know they are. They wouldn't leave me at a time like this. They'll always be with me. And I pray they know that I know that.

Gratefully, as my back hits the hard floor, the pain slips away and I shut my eyes to blackness.

**Lia Kingston's POV (FD2)**

Calla is unconscious. Her district partner is dead. Her ally is crying over her district partner. Angel, Summer and Peyton are fighting, since Peyton jumped up from behind the Cornucopia and tried to kill Angel, but failed, and all hell broke loose. I'm huddled beside Calla's body after Birch and Trey ran, and Trey died, wrapping up my leg with some cloth and string. I want to help Peyton and Summer, but the only thing I'm good at is the bow and arrow and there's no way I could get a direct hit at Angel while they're all fighting in that huddle.

Suddenly, I see an arm slap the ground from the other side of the Cornucopia, and I scream in surprise. I knot the string around the wound and slowly bend my head to look around at who it is. _Please don't be Peyton. Please don't be Summer. Please don't be Peyton. Please don't be Summer_—

It's Peyton.

I look up from my hands and knees and see Angel punch Summer in the face, and then give him one good pound to the top of his head with her fist. He falls beside Peyton. But no cannons go.

They're alive.

But I won't be for long if I stay here. Neither will they.

But I can't leave them. This is our mission. Kill Angel. Kill Seven Plus One. If I leave, I'm going to be a coward, and the reason I volunteered for these Games was so I _wouldn't_ be a coward anymore.

But I can't die.

But I have to help them. Somehow.

Angel is panting and kicking their bodies, and I turn back around and press my back up against the Cornucopia. My eyes scan the area. I pick up my bow and arrow and stand up, hands shaking. She turns to stare at me.

Abruptly, she starts to laugh.

"Shoot me!" She outstretches her arms and laughs manically again. I flinch. I've never seen a more deranged-looking person in my life. Her blonde hair is a rat nest, but manages to still shine as much as her crazy blue eyes that are so wide I think they're the size of the palm of my hand. Her clothing is dirty and ripped, and if I was seeing her for the first time, I'd think she was a homeless person that totally lost it. "Shoot me, District Two! You can't!"

Before I can even load the bow she snatches it from my hands and breaks it with her knee. I want to say something, but I'm too afraid of the stutter coming back and looking pathetic.

But one more look at unconscious Peyton and Summer and I realize I have to do _something_. I have to. So while she's still laughing and breaking all of my arrows, I reach into the Cornucopia and take out one of the last remaining weapons: a mace. But one lift and I find it's too heavy for me to hold. Actually, all that's left are the heavier weapons. The knives are all used up. And I can't see any daggers.

So I take out a small, metal circle that I didn't catch before at the bottom. It's a clock. I don't know how we missed this.

Apparently, it's two 'o' clock.

Without thinking, I round the Cornucopia. When Angel sees me, her laugh gets more evil and higher-pitched.

I throw the clock at her head.

And she joins my allies on the ground.

**Surviving Tributes:**

**District One: None**

**District Two:  
Lia Kingston**

**District Three:  
Anna-Marie Schleben  
Farrow Alliyatt**

**District Four:  
Peyton Bieda**

**District Five:  
Nan Weatherall  
Summer Whitesell **

**District Six:  
Levve Morton  
Mick Revelain**

**District Seven:  
Natalia DeGuzman **

**District Eight:  
Angel Kramer  
Naller Mahlon Versteeg**

**District Nine:  
Bambi Zvoner **

**District Ten:  
Sale Stride**

**District Eleven:  
Birch Coleo Jernehy**

**District Twelve:  
Calla Lilly Warbucks**


	29. Thump

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or these characters.**

**A/N: The next chapter will be a look into the Capitol. The Gamemakers, the president, the top Capitol reporter, and Krow Haliss (the prequel to this story's victor) will be shown. And I promise it'll be better than this one. :)**

**Sorry for the delay again. :/ My exams are almost over, though! Woo!**

**Lia Kingston's POV (FD2)**

Okay so… what am I supposed to do now?

My allies are unconscious, our enemy formerly within our alliance is unconscious, and another alliance is dead/unconscious/sobbing—all in our little Cornucopia cave.

Do I kill Angel?

_Of course you kill Angel,_ a little voice in the back of my head tells me. _If you kill Angel, then you get sponsors, and you have a much better chance at getting home._

Another voice starts nagging at me at the same time, though. _If you kill Angel you may have a nice kill sheet, but is that you, Lia? Are you a murderer?_

"No," I reply aloud, scratching at the back of my neck for something to do with my hands. "But everyone in here has to be a murderer if they want to live."

_That's the spirit, _Voice Number One encourages. _Imagine all those peoples' faces back in your district that doubted you when they see you kill the strongest person in the competition._

I digest that. I would love to see all the girls that made fun of me back at the training center when they watch me kill Angel. But then that other stupid voice interrupts.

_You _want_ them to fear you? _it asks me.

"They won't _fear_ me," I argue, slightly unsurely. I take another look at my allies and Angel on the ground. If I keep this up for much longer Angel will wake up and kill us all.

But I'm torn.

_ They _will_ fear you, _it argues back.

_Fear is good._

_ For some people; but it's not you, Lia._

Ugh. I clamp my hands over my ears, trying to get the two of them out of my head, but they keep talking back and forth and back and forth and eventually I have to scream "SHUT UP!" for everything to go quiet again. The girl that's sobbing in the corner looks at me, as if she just realized that she isn't the only one still awake in here, and stands on her feet. I immediately grab the knife that stabbed me in the leg.

She walks towards me, limping. She's burned and cut up pretty badly. From the backpacks that Twelve has on, I'm going to guess they came here to help her. So before she can say anything to me, I go, "T-take your ally and leave. T-tak-ke the medicine, I don't c-care. But leave them—" I point my knife briefly to the three unconscious people on the ground. "—and go."

Despite my shaking voice, my hand is steadily holding the knife right at her. Maybe I'm not the strongest career but I can tell she realizes I could kill her if I wanted to. She has no weapon. So I keep pointing the knife until she's dragged Twelve and the backpack she has on out one of the tunnels and out of sight. Then I sigh with relief and lower my knife. Two less people to deal with.

My eyes are fixed on the Twelve boy for a moment, and they stay there until the ground swallows him up. Then, reluctantly, I face reality.

Okay. I know what I have to do. I have to kill Angel.

**Levve Morton's POV (FD6)**

I don't know what's going on. All I know is the lights keep flickering on and off, and Mick isn't behind me anymore. I don't know where he went. And I don't know what that scraping sound was, either. But I don't exactly want to find out so I'm just going to keep walking and hope the lights go back to normal.

I left Bambi behind. I guess that's my fault. Two cannons have gone. I'm hoping that she hasn't been them, but by now that's way beyond my control. If Mick killed her, then her death is entirely my fault. I feel like banging my head against the wall in frustration. I can't control _anything_ here.

Walking is getting annoying, so I hum to myself. I'm not sure what song it is. I'm not even sure if it _is_ a song, for that matter. But it's a tune and it's enough to keep me sane as I walk—at least for now. As long as no other tribute hears it and sees me and kills me or something. But you get my point.

To keep myself thinking rationally, I wring my hands together and talk to myself and ignore the way the walls seem very close to me. Every few seconds I automatically turn around and look over my shoulder to make sure Mick isn't there, but other than that, I keep heading straight forwards.

What else am I supposed to do?

**Nan Weatherall's POV (FD5)**

Birch won't tell me what's going on, or where Trey went.

He stabbed something into my leg, which I think was a syringe, but I'm hardly conscience. I'm conscience enough to tell that, at least. My eyes keep straining to close, but Birch is carrying me over his shoulder and he's running and I keep bouncing up and down, and I refuse sleep because I just really, _really_ want to know what's going on.

"Birch," I mumble. "Please. Where's Trey?"

There's a pause. I think he's trying to pretend that he can't hear me.

"Birch?"

"Dead."

Another pause. I have to run the sound through my mind a couple more times to make sure I've heard him right.

"He's… dead?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

Silence.

"Birch!"

"Angel."

"No, Nan. Not Angel."

I hear him sigh. "Yes, I know. You asked me what happened. Angel is what happened. Angel killed Trey, Nan, and that's it."

I shut my eyes and swallow. Trey, dead? Trey's not dead. If Trey's dead, if Angel killed Trey, that means—

Well, that means Trey's dead. Gone.

So, clearly, I'm either dreaming or Birch is lying to me.

….Or, he's actually dead.

We don't talk after that. I don't know what I could say, anyways, and I don't think Birch does either. So I let him carry me without any protest for once. I don't even bother asking where that syringe came from, because I'm scared of the answer that I'll get. I'm scared that maybe Birch will tell me Trey's dead because of me. And that's the last thing I want to hear.

After a while of being lugged around over his shoulder, I feel his bumpy footsteps change into a pattern. It's almost comforting, having a clear, recognizable pattern for once that I can understand here, where nothing has rhythm or rhyme. Left, right. Left, right. One, two. One, two. It plays over and over again in my mind until I give in to the sleep.

—

Next time I wake up Birch is skinning a bat while simultaneously chewing on a part of the wing. It looks gross, but then again I don't see any other options.

"So," I say, and he looks up for a split-second before going back to chewing and skinning, "he's actually… dead?"

Birch nods.

"So… Angel found you guys when you were out hunting for bats?"

He peels a bit more of the skin off. _Rip._ And then another small nod.

"And you just found the medicine, or what?"

"What medicine?"

I gesture to my leg, which has noticeably gone down in swelling. "The medicine that did this."

"Oh." He looks back down again to the bat. _Rip. _"That was a sponsor gift." Now he offers me a piece of the skin. "It looks bad, but it isn't really. Just a little salty."

I take it and nibble on it for a minute, fully aware that he's only trying to turn the conversation away from Trey. But he's right—it's not bad. It's a little good, actually, if you don't mind how chewy it is. Once I've swallowed I go, "Birch. Really. What happened? I don't want to die not knowing."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Finally, he's setting down the bat and staring at me like he's a doctor that's gonna to tell me my mom just died or something. I lean back and settle against the rock wall, even though it's really uncomfortable. Do I actually want to know this? Clearly it's something more than Angel just finding them hunting. Clearly my sponsors wouldn't have enough money to send me a small medical kit, and, right after that, a syringe.

Maybe I'd be better off living what are probably my last few days without that knowledge.

But he starts talking anyways and I can't find the strength or willpower to reject. "We went to the Cornucopia."

Okay, so… deep down I think I knew that was coming. I'm not stupid. Except, for some reason, I feel this unexpected feeling of, like… warmth. I get all these goosebumps and feel a lump forming in my throat. "For… me?" I manage.

"Yeah. And we did it. Almost got out of there, too, except for… you know, Angel…" His voice trails off and he looks at a point above my shoulder as if he's picturing it in his mind again. They went to the Cornucopia for me. _Me_. They cared that much about me. Trey cared enough to die for me. And I know it shouldn't make me happy, and it's not, really, but it's just so…

I don't know. Goosebumpy.

"Birch." I smile at him. My eyes are blurry and I can't really see him anymore, but I don't want to draw attention to the tears—I mean I'm Nan: the tough little girl from District Five; I _don't_ cry—so I don't wipe them away. "Thanks. And thanks, Trey." I look up at the rocky roof. "You too. Thanks a lot. I'll try hard not to let you down."

"Hey, what else are allies for?" Birch asks. He isn't looking at me, still. And for a moment, I wonder if he's crying like me, and doesn't want to show it either—except then I decide that if he wanted me to know he'd tell me, so I immediately pick at a cuticle on my thumb. I shouldn't linger on Trey's death. _We _shouldn't linger on Trey's death. It's affected me, obviously, and if I do get out of this place I don't know how I'll go my entire life knowing Trey died so I could live—but he wouldn't want us using it as an excuse to delay our own Games.

"So, got any more bats?"

I can see him smile—this charming smile I've never seen on him that makes his green eyes crinkle right up on the ends—from behind his messy hair before he throws me a piece of another wing. I catch it and take a bite.

That warmth still hasn't gone away.

**Sale Stride's POV (FD10)**

"Sale, get up."

I yawn, stretch my arms over my head and crack my knuckles, and look at Farrow. He's staring at me like he isn't convinced I'll actually get up unless he stands there until I do. I give him a glare. "I don't need to be babysat, Farrow," I inform him.

"I disagree."

Now I glare at Naller, who's packing up one of our backpacks and isn't looking at me. I don't dare say anything more. I can't show anger in front of these people. It might give them an excuse to kill me. "What time is it?" I ask, to nobody in particular. Anna-Marie looks at me for a moment, still half-asleep, but then shakes her head and turns away.

"Oh," Naller says, looking mockingly at his bare wrist. "Let me just check my watch."

"Eff off," I mutter. I, at last, stand up. My knees crack in the process. One of my district partner's allies, a Twelve, and a little kid from Seven died last night. I shouldn't be glad that two more people are dead, should I? It feels wrong to be celebrating something like that. Except, I am. I've constructed a lie to get me home, and so far, it seems to be working. I'll sit back here and watch while all the other tributes in this hell of an arena drop off like flies and, when the time comes, kill off my own alliance.

"C'mon, Sale," Naller says, throwing me a backpack. I catch it just before it hits the ground. "We're going."

Grimacing, I shrug on the backpack and trudge after Farrow. This is our usual line—Farrow, then Naller, then me, with Anna-Marie at the back.

I'll kill Naller first, I think. It's obvious he knows too much.

—

An albino rabbit has led us straight to a forest. An underground forest.

The rabbit starts to take off to disappear through the trees in the little cavern thing we're standing in; a place that's probably a little bigger than the Cornucopia room, and I start to run and follow it considering it looks like it could be our lunch, but Naller grabs the strap of my backpack and pulls me backwards.

"Don't," he says, real matter-of-factly. "It could be poisonous."

I don't bother replying. I've really had enough of Naller.

We walk a few steps deeper into the forest, and Farrow taps a tree trunk with his knuckles. The sound echoes in the near-empty cavern. Another albino rabbit hops by.

"I'll take the front," Naller offers, but I shake my head and step in front of him. Anna-Marie rolls her eyes and Farrow looks like he's straining not to say anything, but I ignore them both. "I'll go first," I say.

Nobody, not even Naller, objects.

It's creepy, of course, walking along into this dead forest place, white rabbits nonchalantly strolling by every now and then. I'm even afraid of Angel popping up from behind a tree, or the rabbits suddenly becoming rabid or whatever just because the Gamemakers decide they want a show, but I push my way through anyways. Ever since I killed my district partner, I know the Capitol has more faith in me than they did with that stupid training score. My allies, on the other hand… not so much.

Then again, I'm glad they don't.

The trees thin out and we're left with a half-torn down wall. Anna-Marie, who's been walking behind me, suddenly trips and pushes me forwards a little, but after we both regain our balance and before I can swear at her we look down and see that she's tripped over an indent in the ground. A big indent in the ground. A footprint. A heavy one.

"Maybe," Farrow says slowly, also gazing down at the print. "We should leave."

We all agree in a second—not even I have the balls to retaliate that—and Anna-Marie is the first to break into a run through the rotting tree trunks. I'm about to follow, when I hear a _thump._

I freeze. Naller freezes. Farrow freezes. Anna-Marie, who's yards away, freezes.

_Thump._

Everyone sucks in a breath but me. They're all staring behind my head, but I can't see what the heck they're staring at because my back's to the wall. Just as I'm about to ask what the problem is I'm cut off by another _thump,_ a snort that comes from behind me and not from any of my allies, and Farrow saying through his teeth: "Don't. Move, Sale."

_Thump._ I can't tell if it's my heart making this noise or the thing that's snorting and breathing all heavy.

_Thump._ Anna-Marie's face is scrunched up in what I think's fear.

_Thump._

I know to duck before Farrow shouts it, because I feel the abrupt whoosh of movement from behind me and manage to do a dive that even I'm impressed with—until, of course, I land head-first into the cement ground—out of the way. I think I see Naller running towards me, but then he's pulled back by Farrow, I think, and I'm scooped into the air by my neck with everything going fuzzy from the fall—and now with the lack of air.

The last thing I hear is my allies' footsteps.

The last thing I see are two, black, beady eyes.

And the last thing I think is that my foolproof plan just got really fucked up.

**Surviving Tributes:**

**District One: None**

**District Two:  
Lia Kingston**

**District Three:  
Anna-Marie Schleben  
Farrow Alliyatt**

**District Four:  
Peyton Bieda**

**District Five:  
Nan Weatherall  
Summer Whitesell **

**District Six:  
Levve Morton  
Mick Revelain**

**District Seven:  
Natalia DeGuzman **

**District Eight:  
Angel Kramer  
Naller Mahlon Versteeg**

**District Nine:  
Bambi Zvoner **

**District Ten: None**

**District Eleven:  
Birch Coleo Jernehy**

**District Twelve:  
Calla Lilly Warbucks**


	30. Hey, Everyone

**Uh, hi. Chocolatiee here. :)**

** I don't want to get into details. Stuff went on in my life, blah-blah-blah, etc. etc. I stopped writing. I kind of stopped everything. Including this story (clearly D:).**

** I would apologize to you guys, but I doubt that an apology from me would mean anything to anybody at this point, so I won't try that. (Although, if it does mean something, I **_**am**_** sorry.)**

** I'll just say that I do have intentions of picking this story up at this point. It's only that I can't for a few months. I have finals, and then I'll be gone on vacation for a month in the summer, so if I began it now I'd just have to stop again. I don't know if I want to do that. Again.**

** The last week of August is when I'll try it again. I don't know if anyone will be interested at that point—I don't know if anyone is still interested at **_**this**_** point, for that matter, and to be honest I wouldn't blame you—but I will do it. I **_**will**_** finish it, considering I started it and all.**

** Nobody has to reply to this or anything, I just wanted to make sure that everybody knows.**

** Also to thank everyone for sort of putting up with me. And, of course, for supporting my stories. Thank you :)**


	31. The Capitol

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.**

**A/N: We're back in business.**

**Now we take a step away from the Games to see what's happening in the Capitol. Due to the long break I hope this sparks a little reminder for you guys as to whom everyone in this fic is again. :) Sorry for the delay. I was sitting on the plane and, for some reason, decided to stick in a major plot change. So, **_**voila!**_

**Thanks again to everyone who's still reading!**

**Aphrodite Paltoona's POV**

I like my job.

I'm new, but I'm good. I _know_ I'm good. Screw what the other stupid Gamemakers say.

I mean, first there's Willow, who's like, a hundred or something and thinks she's amazing at her job—which she isn't—and her husband Xylo, who's the same way.

And Pietra, who acts all superior twenty-two seven.

And a bunch of other people whose names I can't remember.

And then there's weird I-only-go-by-my-last-name Suladead.

Suladead isn't exactly my cup of green herbal—but dyed pink for appearance—tea. He contradicts everything I do. Like, for instance, right now, he's trying to push me away from the control panel and open up the stupid wall that I closed behind the District Six girl. He says it's better if her district partner kills her, but _hello_, she wandered right into my trap. _The_ best trap in the arena.

So I want to kill this girl.

"Aphrodite!" Pietra puts her shaking head in her hands. "Don't be stupid! Let Suladead—"

"_I want to kill her_—" I snap, leaning over Suladead for the medium-sized red button on the panel, my eyes flickering briefly to D6 girl. My finger's halfway down on this button—that was supposed to be a _big_ red button, except apparently the stupid giant deer thing is granted the _big_ one—and the lights turn off to release my creation. But suddenly Suladead rams me away again and the wall blocking her district partner starts to rise back up and the lights immediately turn back on.

"_Stop it_—" My voice is a hiss, now, and I shove Suladead and his stupid spiky blue hair away from me. Halfway through pushing the button, Suladead tackles me.

_Yes. Tackles me. Right to the ground._

I let out an ear-piercing scream and I hear Xylo swear while my back hits the stupid ground and Suladead lands on top of me. Willow tells both of us to calm down. I think I hear Pietra laugh, so to show that I'm not gonna be pushed around and tackled just because I'm the new girl, I bring up my knee and kick Suladead off and press down the button once more, just in time to block out the D6 boy out.

The lights in her tunnel shut off.

I feel the undeniable need to cackle and am about to do so, my hand already reaching for the switch that will release the creature—_my_ creature—when stupid Willow shouts: "SHE'S GOING TO KILL HER!"

Everyone in the room stops to look at her. Suladead is on the ground, clutching at where I kneed him, and apparently I kneed him in that very sensitive area men have, but even he is staring up at Willow, too.

"Why yes," I say proudly. "Yes, I am."

"No, SCREEN TWO! SCREEN TWO!"

All our eyes turn to screen two. Pietra swears. Stupid Suladead gasps—whether from pain or surprise-ment, I don't know. But I do know that on screen two there's the weird District Two girl, holding a knife in her hand, and walking over to where the knocked out District Eight is lying. Oh my gosh. Oh _my gosh_. _She is going to kill the best player in these Games._

Which is great and all for her, except once she's gone, who's going to do all the killing!

"She can't kill her!" I exclaim.

"Do something then, Aphrodite!" Pietra glares at me expectantly, and I give her a smirk back. The joke's on her because an hour ago on my break I switched that stupid white mascara she always uses and keeps in her bag with superglue. And that's because an hour ago,_ she_ ate the sandwich _I _ordered for _my_ lunch when I went to the washroom.

"You're the one that knows everything," I counter, gesturing to the panel. "Be my guest and solve this with that delicious sandwich you unfairly stole from me for lunch in your stupid stomach."

I think we're having a staring/glaring competition until Suladead stands up, waddles over to one of the locked panels we only use in emergencies, and opens it with a key he keeps in his pocket. In it is a chart of the Cornucopia room—which, by the way, I mapped out—and he pushes a button placed on the spot above where the District Two girl is standing.

I look back to the screen just in time to see a piece of rock break off the ceiling, hit the Girl Who's Trying To Ruin the Games's head, and knock her unconscious beside the other three people in the cave.

There's a pause after this happens, where Willow and Xylo do nothing but sit back in their seats and watch as usual, Pietra cocks her stupid white eyebrows at me, and I can see out of the corner of my eye Suladead staring at both of us, when he lunges to the area that controls the tunnel where District Six Girl is.

I lunge, too.

It's already a long, stupid day.

**Sahara Rakella-Ann Patterson's POV**

Remember that name.

Actually, don't. I don't go by my full name; my producer says it'd get people confused. So I just go by Rakella Patterson. Rakella Patterson, top Capitol reporter reporting for duty. Sounds good, doesn't it? Has a bit to a ring to it if I do say so myself. That's why I've got the top job in the whole nation: covering the Hunger Games.

Don't ask me my opinion on them, because, first of all, I can't give it. A reporter isn't supposed to be biased. Second of all, I simply don't have one. You may find that hard to believe, but I don't. The Games've been around for so long they've become a part of everyone's lives; so ingrained in mine that they're now just… there. Nothing good and nothing bad about them. They are only there.

I watch the screen with my co-host, Evilin Jennings, although I call him Evvy for short. Which he hates because I'm pretty sure we both know at least two females with the same name. Poor guy.

"Who's your favourite?" I ask him. He scratches his so-blond-it's-white hair and shrugs. "I like the District Eight girl." I fake-shudder, and he continues. "And the Five boy. What about you?"

"Don't have one." I shuffle some papers on the desk and take another quick glance at the screen. The District Six girl is now safe from her district partner, in a dark tunnel. Abruptly, the tunnel lightens up again, she jumps, looks around, and keeps walking with her head on a swivel.

Evvy sighs and shakes his head. "You take your job too seriously, Sahara."

He is about the only one I allow to call me that name. We've been working together for too long for him not to: around five years, now.

"Or maybe, Evvy, you take yours too lightly."

"We're coming back to you two in three—TWO—ONE—"

Upon those words both of us automatically make the papers on the desk neater, I push my newly-dyed chestnut hair with pink and purple streaks behind my shoulders, and the smile that shoots at the camera is habitual. Our producer gives us the signal to start talking, so I do.

"Before we cut to our commercials," I say, "we'll take a quick look at where each alliance is."

The screen in front of me that the camera can't see goes to Bambi, from District Nine, holding her bleeding arm and roaming wobbly down a tunnel. Then to Levve, District Six, who's doing the same thing, minus the bleeding arm. Mick is still pounding on that wall. Nan and Birch are about a mile away from the Cornucopia, likewise with Natalia and Calla, just in opposite directions. The so-called 'careers' are all unconscious. Naller, Farrow, and Anna-Marie are all running away from a big thing I heard one of the Gamemakers call a 'Minotaur'.

When I see myself on the screen again, I beam at the camera. "But before we get into any more action, here are a few things that were able to make the Hunger Games possible."

We cut to commercial.

"I'm hungry," Evvy says, as our make-up artists rush out and perform touch-ups. "I'd like a salad with mandarins, please, hold the dressing."

Twenty seconds later, he has the salad.

"I'd like the same," I tell nobody in particular. "Don't hold the dressing."

My figure is perfect. I hate diets, and besides, I don't need them. The Capitol people love being skinny, and so do I, so I guess it's a good thing I've got a good metabolism or whatever the doctor called it. I'm actually the same size as my sister, Tartica, and she's had too many tummy-tucks/liposuctions/lap-bands to count. It's one of the things I pride myself on, my figure is. Along with my reporter status, my thick hair, and my big round eyes. Well, and my slightly upturned nose. And my prominent cheekbones are pretty nice and (what's that word?) _exotic_, too.

They bring me my salad, and I spread the dressing around and dig in with the plastic fork. Yum. I don't really know what it is because I usually just second whatever Evvy orders, but _yum_. It's good.

"Three minutes," the producer says, and I wolf down half the salad within the next thirty seconds. Evvy is practically still on his second bite. Sometimes I think I'm more of a man than he is.

"You're not going to finish in time," I inform Evvy, still shovelling food into my mouth. But by now I know he doesn't care. He orders food when he's hungry which is usually about an hour past lunchtime, and he takes a couple bites whenever the camera isn't on us. And by bites I mean nibbles. He chews like my mother's pet rabbit.

He gently places the fork down on the plate, covers it back up with the plastic covering, and puts it down under our desk by his feet. I do the same, because the producer's announcing one minute and my make-up artist is applying some more shimmery eye shadow on my eyelids. I purse my lips as she moves on to lipstick, and then smack them and manage to get a smile in just as we get the signal to speak.

"Welcome back to the coverage of the 175th Hunger Games!" Evvy says. "Anyone can feel the excitement in the air here in the Capitol."

"Sure can," I put in. "I'm so excited I think I might puke up my lunch."

We both laugh at that for a second before going back to the camera.

"Anyways," Evvy starts, when suddenly the television broadcasting our own images in front of us turns to a bright red screen, the Vice President Sonim's face, and flashing white letters flying across the bottom so fast I can barely read them. Everyone in the studio stops to stare at the screen, confused.

"What—" I say, but Evvy shushes me, and Vice President Sonim interrupts me. "People of Panem," he says. "This is not a drill. The Capitol is currently on lockdown due to interference in—"

The screen cuts back to me and Evvy, our mouths open and eyes wide. He clears his throat. Everybody in the studio is silent, but my heart is beating in my chest. Actually, in my throat. Lockdown? We're on lockdown. "Sorry for that interruption," Evvy says, shuffling some papers around, "but we're—"

Vice President Sonim is back, a cut above his eyebrow drizzling blood, along with the red screen and flashing white letters. _The Capitol is on lockdown_, it's saying. _This is not a drill. Please do not…_

"People of Panem," he says again, his bald head glistening and beady eyes shining, "this is not a joke. This is not a drill. President Reed has been shot."

There's a buzz around the studio. People are gasping, whispering, someone in the back by the tray of veggies and fruits and high calorie dips starts crying. I can feel my eyes growing wider, the words still sinking in. _President Reed has been shot_.

What?

"He was shot seconds ago in his office. People from the districts invaded the Capitol. They broke into President Reed's office. Those that were in his office have been taken care of." The screen cuts from Vice President Sonim's neutral composed face to a video scanning a green-carpeted ground. There's a man lying there, eyes open, limbs sprawled, a knife sticking out of his chest and blood pouring out of his mouth. I cringe but don't look away. And then another man, in the same position a few feet away, three prominent gunshots in a straight line, across his forehead. He stares into nothing, at the camera, dead.

Evvy, beside me, leans over his side of the desk and pukes. Despite being the broadcaster for the Hunger Games, I've learned that Evvy is extremely sensitive to all that gory stuff. He's vomited up his lunch/breakfast/dinner roughly thirty times so far this year. But nobody's even paying any attention to Evvy, because Vice President Sonim is back.

"If there are any more district people in the Capitol," he's saying. "We are tracking them down, and I'll reassure everyone that their fates will be much, _much _worse than the two you just witnessed."

He pauses, glaring straight into the camera, straight into my eyes. "I am the new president of Panem. And under my rule, any other rebels will be tortured, and then killed, after I have them begging for death."

The screen goes back to me and Evvy, but I'm still sitting there, speechless, hands together on the desktop, and Evvy is still puking over his side of the desk. The producer has recovered and is moving his hands through the air in a circle, motioning for me to improvise, but I can't. I have no idea what to say. I don't even have any idea what to think.

"Uh," I say, intelligently, trying to ignore the sound of Evvy up-chucking the mandarin salad. "Well. Apparently, President Reed has just been shot." I laugh, because generally that's how I lighten the mood. "Wait," I continue. "That's not funny. _So_ not funny…. All right, um, well…. Right. Well. Here are a few things that have made the Hunger Games possible."

And then we cut to commercial.

**Krow Haliss's POV**

"Shrike, really, I'm fine."

I can hear her impatient voice on the other end of the phone. She lets out a sigh that slowly turns into a frustrated groan. "Don't leave that room, okay? Don't go anywhere. I don't want something—Mara, stop, I'm on the phone with your father… Honey, Mara wants to talk to you."

There's some static, and then I hear my youngest child's voice. "Daddy? Why is it on lockdown over there?"

I sigh and rub my temple with my one available hand. I've already explained it to Cheyenne—who's already twenty years old—and Connor—seventeen—and, unfortunately, Shrike, who almost had a heart attack when I told her they were panicking over the intercom system, saying to lock all doors and windows, because it was possible there were more district people in the building. I don't even know why I told her that. I don't even know why I didn't just say everything was fine and move on to how the kids were.

"I'm fine, sweetheart," I say. "The president has been murdered, but everyone else is fine, okay?" I turn my voice into a whisper. "He wasn't very nice, anyways."

She laughs and says all right, she loves me and misses me, and I love her and miss her too. The phone is transferred back to my wife, Shrike. "You promise me you won't leave that room, Krow? You promise me? No matter what?"

"Yes, I promise." I look around the empty room, at the two TV screens in front of me, flickering with images I don't want to see, but have to look at. "Honey, I have to go watch Calla."

Another groan. "Okay. Love you. Talk to you later."

"Love you too." I hang up the phone, because normally it takes Shrike and me minutes to finish a conversation. If I know that I have to be off the phone by six, I'll end the conversation at five fifty-five. And I know it sounds horrible, but I don't have the strength to even speak to my family like usual right now. After Luke died, everything has gone downhill. Natalia, Calla's only other ally, isn't going to last much longer. And how Calla is going to survive by herself against the other strong alliances, I have no idea.

Plus, she really doesn't have that many sponsors. I'm not losing faith or hope—I never do, not after winning the Games myself—but I'm not exactly an optimist this year, either.

Shrike and I have been training our kids, Cheyenne, Connor and Mara, since they've been little for the Games. There is no way that we would make them—let them, even—volunteer, but we knew we had to be prepared from the moment we decided we were going to have kids at all. Cheyenne is safe; she's passed all her reapings unharmed. But Connor and Mara aren't done yet. And that scares me to death every reaping. If it's hard enough to train other peoples' kids to their deaths, what about training my own, knowing that they stand, most likely, less than a one to twenty-four chance of living?

And I have no idea what the deal with the president being killed is, but first of all, it's not like there's anything I can do about it right now; the only thing there is to do is wait. And second of all, I'm sure they'll let us know soon enough.

Why would they pass up a perfect opportunity to scare the shit out of all of us, anyways?

**President Reed's POV**

I don't have time to press the PANIC button under my desk. They come in from behind me, through the window, and knock me out of my chair and onto the floor five feet away from my desk.

There are two of them. Both of them look dirty, like they just trekked through the woods and rolled around in some sand, and I think they actually might have.

"President Reed," one, with black hair, says. He only looks around eighteen. "We mean no harm. Yet. We need to talk to you. It's about the vice president."

The other one has light hair, made to look dark because of all the dirt caked in it. District people. My first reaction is to wonder why the security people allowed them in my office, or allowed them to break in. I think about all the trouble it's going to be finding out who was in charge, and firing them. I'm already thinking of who I could get to fire them for me when the blond one kicks me in the shin.

"Look," he says. "We don't want to hurt you. But we will, if we have to."

I begin to stand up, ignoring these people I don't care about, but they push me back down again. "Leave," I tell them. "Or you will regret it."

At that moment, my door bursts open. Chadlin Sonim, the man I appointed vice president a year ago, is standing there with a gun in his hand. He looks slightly crazed. His eyes are a bit wild—like the tributes' get before they realize they're about to die, or when they're ready to kill.

I stand up and brush myself off. "Kill them," I say to Sonim, nonchalant, turning back around to sit down at my desk. My feet are killing me from standing at a press conference for over an hour today. "Kill—"

There's a huge, reverberating _boom_ that cuts me off. At first, I'm not sure what it is. Then I feel the impact in my chest—then I feel the blood spilling out. I can't breathe, or feel, and I fall backwards, onto my back, onto the ground.

He stands above me, looking down. I grasp at the hole in my chest, like that will stop the flow of blood.

"It needed to be done," he says. It sounds like it's echoing in my office, off the walls, in my ear drums. He's fading away even though I'm sure I'm not closing my eyes.

I realize it before it happens.

I'm dead.


	32. Worst Escape Route Ever

**A/N: This one's longer than the usual. :)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or these characters. Potatoes brought to you by Claratrix LeChatham.**

**Anna-Marie Schleben's POV (FD3)**

Sale is dead.

Not only is she dead, she's eaten. That thing ate her in one bite. I don't even have the time to worry about what her family is thinking—first she's gone, then her body is, probably forever—because Farrow's grabbing my wrist as I stare up at that big bull-like figure, its dark hairy chest rising up and down, and pulling me behind him and Naller. Soon all I can think about are my feet and that I need to go faster, faster, hearing the far-off sound of heavy breathing behind me.

Farrow, Naller and I run through the dead forest, stumbling over roots and the rocky ground, but not stopping, never stopping. After about a minute I can hear the familiar _thump_ing noise the bull made in the first place, running after us, apparently done with Sale.

"Anna-Marie!" Farrow screams from in front of me, eyes bright and staring over my shoulder. "Faster!"

The three of us dash out of the dead forest, our footsteps echoing and the faint light the forest had fading as we enter a tunnel. For about thirty seconds, all I can hear is us breathing and our footsteps. I think, for a second, we're safe. That maybe that thing doesn't come past the forest.

And then, distantly, I see it crash through the wall. I see it—too tall to fit through the entranceway—get down on all fours and start huffing and puffing and using its hind legs to propel itself closer to us. I let out a scream that gives even me goose bumps before Farrow starts pulling me again.

"DON'T STOP!" he shouts. "DON'T LOOK BACK. JUST RUN."

I don't know what to do but obey. I'm bringing up our pack of three people, Naller leading it. If that thing does catch up to us, I'm dead. So I run. I run, my blood pumping, not daring to take the risk of looking over my shoulder.

The _thump_s are coming quicker now. All mushed together, with the sound of snorting, deep breathing from behind. _Thumpthumpthump_. And then our footsteps: _pitpatpitpat_.

So caught up in running, I don't see the wall until I hit it, head-first. I feel dizzy. For a second, I can't tell whether I'm on the ground or still standing, and then my back hits hard rock and I come to the conclusion that I was falling. Naller and Farrow are pulling me up by both of my hands and banging on the wall I bumped into, the wall that is keeping us blocked in here, with _it_.

And it's running straight for us. Its arms—I guess you could call them arms—pounding the ground in fists, and its legs close behind. The eyes and horns are pointed directly at me. There's no place to go, nowhere to run, and we're all forming a huddle against the wall, heads down, because I can't see anything else we _could_ do.

_Thumpthumpthump. Thumpthumpthump._ Farrow's breathing to my left, Naller's to my right. My eyes closed, because I don't want to see my own death.

"I love you, Mom and Dad," I say. "I'm sorry."

_Thumpthumpthump_.

I shut my eyes even tighter.

_Screeeech_.

I open my eyes for a split second, look over Farrow's shoulder, and see that I can no longer see the creature. All I can see is darkness. A dark wall, in place of where a tunnel used to be.

My arms loosen off of Farrow and Naller's shoulders. We're all staring at that wall, at the _thumpthumpthump_ that's still coming from behind it.

A sudden thump makes it clear that it just rammed right into the wall, horns first, and a few rocks fall from the ceiling above the new wall. After a few moments of bursting silence, it runs into the wall again, and a few more rocks tumble onto the ground. It happens again, and again, and once more, while the three of us look on at that shadowy wall.

And then, it stops.

The three of us start breathing again—at least, I do—and we all look around, and then at each other, and then start laughing lightly, like we don't know what else to do.

"Well," Naller says, leaning the side of his head against the wall, "that's a relief."

As soon as those words leave his mouth, the wall starts moving again.

But this time it's towards us. Towards the wall behind us.

Fuck.

Spoke too soon.

**Bambi Zvoner's POV (FD9)**

Levve is gone, and so is her district partner Mick. I'm left with a wounded arm and a long, dark tunnel. One of the walls shifted so I was forced in another direction, down a different long, dark tunnel. I'm confused, even though there isn't much to be confused about.

Plus, my arm hurts. More than my feet did in those ridiculous shoes my stylist put me in for the interviews—and if you ever wore those things, you'd know that that's saying a lot.

Something inside of me wants to yell 'hello', just to see if anyone else is in this with me. If I could have company, even for a little while. I'm not sure how Mick walked around this place alone for days, because it's only been about an hour and I'm already lonely and scared and longing for _someone_.

But another part of me fights that, saying that I could _die_ if I had any company. Actually, I most definitely will, if somebody finds me. I don't have a weapon, my arm is still dripping blood despite the piece of shirt I tied tight around it, and—well—that's basically all I need to die. Or don't need, depending how you look at it.

I walk for about another hour, taking little breaks here and there to sit down. I find a bunch of glowing potatoes gathered in one corner, which I pick up, sticking one in each of my pockets, but not daring to eat. They're glowing, so I'd say they aren't edible. But I guess they could come in handy somehow. Maybe I could throw them at an attacker's head and knock them out?

Hah. Okay.

I eat the leaves, though, because they aren't glowing and they look perfectly fine. I pack some more of those away in my pockets before beginning to walk again.

Finally, after what seems like this long stretch of silence, I come to an opening in the tunnel. It expands higher and higher above my head, and it curves suddenly into a big room and—

It's the Cornucopia room.

I stop in my tracks, bringing my breathing down as low as it can go, although I'm starting to hyperventilate a little. I take back what I said about the company. I don't need company. I really don't.

Straining my neck to see inside, I can see that the whole cave thing looks kind of… empty. Of course I can't see the other side of the Cornucopia, but whatever. Maybe the careers have gone hunting for the day? Maybe I could sneak in there and get a knife, and a bandage, or something? I mean, if I don't, and somebody finds me eventually anyways, I'll die. I may as well take the risk now.

Gingerly, I take a step inside the room. I can't even hear it it's so gentle. Then I begin to tiptoe, crouching over just in case there's somebody on the other side of the Cornucopia. Gosh, this place looks deserted. I just have to get in and out until—

Breathing. I hear breathing.

I stop in my tracks. It's heavy breathing, not like the kind you do when you're awake, but almost a snore. Obviously, there's someone else in here. It's not like the careers would go and leave this whole room unguarded, right? Crap. Just as I spin around to tiptoe back out—besides, I'm only halfway to the Cornucopia—and run away, something snaps, loudly, underneath my foot.

I stop again. Crap—again. It's an arrow, now in two pieces. I look up. This place has a few of them lying around. Arrows are scattered over the ground, alongside a few daggers. I see a clock by the Cornucopia, accompanied by some shiny golden hair I somehow, stupidly, didn't see before. Oh, no. That's Angel. Angel is sleeping on the other side of the Cornucopia and I wandered right to her. I need to get out—

Wait. Get out? Why would I want to get out when I could kill her? _She's_ the one that may as well have killed Senn, my district partner, right? Why would I leave when I could kill off one of the most powerful people in these games?

Thinking of Senn, I get this huge burst of adrenaline. I walk forwards, closer and closer to the Cornucopia, avoiding arrows along the way, until I reach a dagger just a few strides away from the Cornucopia and Angel's head. I'll slit her throat, I decide. I don't know where to stab her to make sure she dies immediately on impact in her chest, so I'll have to go for the jugular.

I lean forwards, over her body, when I notice something else: three of the other careers are lying right next to her. Lia, from District Two, and Peyton from Four, and Summer from Five. They all look like they're peacefully sleeping. Well, what the hell? Did they all decide to take a nap at once?

Just as I'm debating about whether or not I'm still going to kill Angel, given that the others wake up and attack me for it (although I do want to avenge my poor district partner) Angel moves. She sucks in a deep breath, and her eyelids are fluttering, and my heart is pounding and my body starting to shake because everything is happening at once and I'm panicking and hyperventilating again, and the only thing I can think of to do before her eyes open is drop the dagger and dive into the Cornucopia.

I land on the handle of a mace, narrowly avoiding the spikey top part. I push myself up against the wall facing the careers, my movements echoing in the small shell, and as soon as I hear Angel take another breath in I stop moving and press my ear up against the side I'm leaning on.

I hear her yawning, and then I hear her standing up. There's a pause. I can't breathe, I don't even dare to.

Now, there's a long, pregnant silence. I have no idea what's going on, not until I hear what sounds like her picking a few things up off the ground, and—footsteps. She's walking away. From the Cornucopia. From the three unconscious people on the ground. _Angel_ is.

I risk a glance over the rim, and sure enough, her back is retreating into one of the tunnels.

I slither back down into my sitting position on the handle of the mace, taking out one of the leaves from my pocket and nibbling on it.

After I'm done this leaf I'll find a bandage to help my arm. And when I'm sure Angel is really gone, I'll sneak out, grab that dagger, and follow her.

I may as well make _something_ out of my remaining life.

**Naller Mahlon Versteeg's POV (MD8)**

The wall screeches towards us, against the ground, sparks flying up from where it creates friction against the surrounding walls. The three of us stand there for a moment, shocked, wondering what to do, when Farrow cries, "PUSH!"

We all race forwards at the wall, throwing our weight against it. I thrust my shoulder and push so hard I swear I hear something around my neck _pop_. But our feet scramble against the rocky ground, searching for some kind of resistance. Finding nothing, we're pushed right back. I turn around for a moment to see that we have about five hundred feet until we're turned into pancakes.

Oh, fuck.

The three of us run back to the other wall, and immediately Farrow runs his fingers along the crevices on one side. I rush to the other and do the same. Anna-Marie just stands there, holding her head like she suddenly has a headache, and then staring up at the roof, frowning.

"Look for something, Anna!" I shout, my fingers tracing a crack in the wall. I pull at it, push at it, try and get_ anything_ out of it, but there's nothing. "Anna!" I say again, this time harsher and more desperate. _What is wrong with her?_

"Come here, Naller," she says, still blinking at the ceiling. When I don't, her voice turns firmer. "_Naller_! _Please_!"

Abandoning my post at the wall and seeing that Farrow pay us no attention, he just keeps exploring that wall, I stalk over to where Anna-Marie is standing. She doesn't even seem to notice the wall that's about to kill all three of us. In fact, she looks perfectly calm. "Let me get on your shoulders."

I don't object. I bend over so she can wind her legs over my shoulders, and, despite the fact that I have probably just over a hundred pounds weighing me down, I'm able to stand up. One look at that wall tells me I have to. So I do, and Anna-Marie, with her head just skimming along the ceiling, starts feeling one part of the roof. "Take a step back," she demands. I do, and my back hits the wall that Farrow is still looking at. His head turns to face us.

"What are you two doing?" he questions, gaze going up to where Anna-Marie's hands are fumbling along the roof.

"I don't know," I mutter. "What _are_ we doing?"

She doesn't reply. All she does is take a breath and shut her eyes in concentration as she pushes up on the ceiling.

"Anna-Marie," Farrow says, slowly, over the sound of rock pulling against rock getting nearer to us, "you can't—"

But Farrow shuts up, then, because a piece of the ceiling flies upwards and out of our sight, and she glances down at us. "If you two had just trusted me…" she murmurs, grabbing hold of the edge of the opening and pulling herself into it. Farrow and I stare at her, blinking, until she snaps, "Well, what are you waiting for? Christmas? Get up here!"

Farrow instantly bends down and offers his back to me, but I shake my head. "I'm taller. I'll reach easier."

He glares. "I've got more upper-body strength. I could pull myself up better."

From above us, Anna-Marie lets out a frustrated groan. "Shut up or you're both going to die."

I get down on all fours and refuse to get up, and Farrow, eyeing that moving wall, calls me a swearword before climbing onto my shoulders. I push myself off the ground with as much force as I have in my legs, and his head disappears through the opening. I see Anna-Marie grab his hands and pull him deeper in, and then his head pops out and he reaches out a hand. "Jump, Naller!"

I jump up for his hand, but I miss it. I jump again, but I miss it once more. The ceiling is too high up for me to reach, even jumping. Crap. Oh, just fucking peachy. What am I—?

Suddenly, my focus turns back to the wall, now only about fifty feet away. And, abruptly, I know what I've got to do.

Pushing my back up against the non-moving wall, I wait. I stand there and watch the other wall move quickly, quicker than it had been before, towards me, while Farrow and Anna-Marie scream at me to keep jumping. But I yell back at them to shut up, I can't lose my concentration, and Farrow does shush but Anna-Marie doesn't. I keep my gaze focused on that wall, moving closer, and closer, until it's only six feet away, and I dig one of my feet into the ground and the other on my wall, before jumping off, up, and to the other.

My foot hits it a few feet up, and I grunt and push off again, putting all my weight into getting higher and not even considering what's going to happen if I fall back down. I'm at least five feet up the wall now, as I push again, but my foot slips this time, and it's skidding down the side of the rocky wall taking me with it—

I feel something wrap around my wrist, suspending me in the air, and I look up to see Farrow looking right back at me. I throw my other hand towards him, too, and he takes it and starts to pull. I kick off the moving wall, pushing myself higher, faster, and all I'm thinking about is just getting through that opening, nothing else, and then I'm being pulled through and my legs are still kicking, even though there's nothing left to kick but ground beneath me.

I'm lying on top of Farrow, so I roll over onto my back in the tiny tunnel space, the roof only about a metre above me. The three of us are breathing hard, and I close my eyes, telling myself it's okay—I'm still alive.

For now, anyways.

**Calla Lilly Warbucks's POV (FD12)**

Natalia isn't doing so swell.

I applied the medicine from the Cornucopia to her burns, and she seems to be better than she was doing before. Physically, at least. Since we got away from the careers she's been moping around beside me as we walk, occasionally breaking down into tears and covering her face with her hands. At first, I tried comforting her and telling her it wasn't her fault, but as it's progressed I think it's best if she simply faces it. Stands through it. Takes it all at once and cries it out until there can't be any left.

"I'm sorry," she says, wiping her eyes, after yet another breakdown. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Oh, Nat, nothing's wrong with you," I tell her. We've stopped in the middle of—shocker—another dark tunnel to catch some food. My eyes are following a bat around, waiting for the right time to reach up and grab it. "And don't you even think that there is. There's nothing wrong with crying."

She shakes her head, putting it atop her knees. "I feel like shit." Her voice is sort of stuffy, and she sniffs before continuing. "And my burns feel fine, so I don't know why—"

Another failed attempt to grab the bat, so I plop down on the ground beside her and squeeze her shoulder. "Of course you feel like shit. Just look at where we are."

For a moment, I remember the perpetually coal-coated air back in District Twelve. I wouldn't mind breathing in an entire coal mine right now, so long I knew there was sun right outside, waiting for me. I remember the air from the chariot rides. I remember what the wind felt like. How fresh air smelt. I never thought I'd miss the sun—for goodness sake, even _light_—like this.

"Yeah," Natalia says, "but Luke, too, Calla. Aren't you mad that I killed your district partner?"

"You didn't kill him."

She gives me a doubtful look.

I cock my eyebrows. "You didn't, Natalia."

The look doesn't fade. I sigh. "If it makes you feel better, I don't blame Angel for his death, either. Honestly. I wouldn't even blame her for mine, if it came to that."

Now, her eyebrows shoot high up on her forehead. "How can you say that about—"

"Look." I sigh again. "Angel may have _killed_ him, but there's no way that that's her fault. If it weren't for all of _this_." I gesture my hand around in the air to, basically, everywhere. "Then he wouldn't have even been here in the first place."

That shuts her up. I guess it puts us both at risk, me dissing the Games and by extension the Capitol, but I think that it had to be said. Especially for Natalia. And kind of for me, too. It didn't sound very true, just a thought wandering aimlessly around in my mind since last year's Games, until I said it aloud.

I guess that's what they can do to you, though. Get you thinking that _you're _wrong—even if they're the ones killing twenty-three innocent children annually.

**Natalia DeGuzman's POV (FD7)**

Calla and I are sitting in silence, staring at the dark wall in front of us. I've never felt more weak and vulnerable. I've never _let_ myself feel so weak and vulnerable, not after my abusive past. I promised myself I would never go back to that helplessness.

Still, I sit here, anyone that passes totally capable of killing me, and somehow I don't mind. I don't mind the vulnerable, weak feeling as much as I thought I would. Maybe it's okay to feel like this sometimes, right? Maybe it's all right to show everyone else how you're feeling. Besides, it's not like I care very much about others' views about me at this point.

"I—" Calla begins, starting to get to her feet, but a _crack_ing sound cuts her off. We both turn to look up at the ceiling, where it came from, but before I know what's happening the whole thing is collapsing on us, rocks and gravel flying, and I throw myself forwards with my hands over the back of my head, face down.

Aside from a heavy rock landing on the back of my knee, no major damage is done, and I turn my head around over my shoulder listening to my arm scrape rocks across the ground and breathing hard, to find Calla's eyes shut and a cut above her eye gushing blood. I pull myself towards her with my hands, across the ground, because my leg hurts too much for me to stand up. "Calla?"

I reach her and, struggling, push a rock off of her chest. "Calla," I say again. A cannon hasn't gone off, but that doesn't mean one won't. I shake her lightly. "Calla, please—"

I don't even notice the people laying on the other side of her until one coughs and, grumbling something about the worst escape route ever, sits up. His green eyes land on me, his strong jaw line illuminated in the dim lighting.

Without hesitation I heave myself off the ground and, with an immediate raise of my blood pressure, manage to pick up Calla's limp body before starting in the other direction. But something inside of me is slowing me down. It feels like I just swallowed a brick, and I can't breathe from the pressure, and my chest is aching.

This isn't right. I'm supposed to have increased stamina. What's going on?

But I know that I can't stop running, so I keep going. I'm limping because of the pain in the back of my knee, and wheezing because of the pain and pressure in my chest, so it's at a very slow pace. I make clumsy movements, trying to step over the ceiling that is now splayed on the ground. And then all my breath swooshes out of my lungs.

I can't move anymore. I drop Calla and fall onto my knees, trying to suck in air that isn't coming.

_What is going on?_

Everything starts to blur, including the three shadowy figures that now stand around me.

"What's happening to her?" I hear a girl say.

There's no response for a moment. All I can hear are my shallow breaths.

Someone else, a guy, finally goes, "I think she's dying."

They're talking about me, I realize. They think that I'm dying. But am I dying? I'm not dying. There's no way—

Am I?

A million thoughts rush through my mind at once. My sister, and my mother. How, as soon as we escaped my father, as soon as we had a sense of freedom, I got sent here. I wonder if I'll be going to the same place he went. I wonder whether or not I'll see him, after everything is over. I mean, if it's even ending.

But, sucking in less breath than I had before, I think that it might be.

So I collapse. I lay there on the ground, eyes shut out from the rest of the world, praying that maybe Calla will at least win. Maybe these three people won't kill her, whoever they are. Maybe a miracle'll happen for her, since it sure as hell didn't happen for me.

It's all fading, now. Everything is. And I take in that, once again, I'm vulnerable. I don't think there is a position in the world that is more vulnerable than mine, right at this very moment.

But, again, I don't mind.

With one last attempt at a breath of air, I sink into a dark, peaceful, pool of nothing.

**Surviving Tributes:**

**District One: None**

**District Two:**

**Lia Kingston**

**District Three:**

**Anna-Marie Schleben**

**Farrow Alliyatt**

**District Four:**

**Peyton Bieda**

**District Five:**

**Nan Weatherall**

**Summer Whitesell **

**District Six:**

**Levve Morton**

**Mick Revelain**

**District Seven: None**

**District Eight:**

**Angel Kramer**

**Naller Mahlon Versteeg**

**District Nine:**

**Bambi Zvoner **

**District Ten: None**

**District Eleven:**

**Birch Coleo Jernehy**

**District Twelve:**

**Calla Lilly Warbucks**


	33. One Sneeze Too Many

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games, or these characters.**

**A/N: Another thanks to everyone who's reading and reviewing. :)**

**Peyton Bieda's POV (FD6)**

When I open my eyes, everything rushes back.

District Seven Plus One, gone wrong. The fight with Angel. Letting the District Twelve girl go free—possibly saving her life from Angel for a reason I can't even explain. I just knew she was innocent; she had done nothing wrong to me. Why should I do wrong to her?

I blink awake, sitting up and immediately getting one of those fuzzy rushes to my head. I press the heels of my hands against my eyelids and watch bright images that you see when you watch the blackness behind your eyes flash across my view, and then I yawn and remove my hands and stretch my arms above my head. It takes me a minute to see Lia and Summer, unconscious, beside me.

I jump up to the balls of my feet instantly, swinging my gaze around the Cornucopia cave. But Angel is nowhere in sight. I would hope that Lia killed her after I blacked out, except Eight's bow and arrows are gone, along with the vials of poison she had been dipping her arrows in. I check our dynamite stock off to the side of the Cornucopia, and there're a few sticks of it missing. And we only have three packs of matches, while before we had five.

Shit. She could be anywhere.

"Summer?" I walk over to him and shake his shoulders. He looks almost like a little kid, sleeping, his dishevelled hair falling over his freckles. "Wake up."

Nothing. I check his pulse, and albeit a little slow, it seems normal. I shake Lia, too, but she stays as she is as well. I notice a huge gash on the top of her head, dried blood caked around her hair, and a broken rock to her side. It's not like I have anything better to do, so I get out a medicine kit and clean the—still bleeding—wound. Then I place a gauze pad on it to soak up the blood.

And I sit there on the ground, a dagger in my lap just in case Angel decides to make a surprise appearance, leaning against the Cornucopia and holding the pad against Lia's head.

Half an hour goes by. Another half an hour. All I can hear is the steady breathing of my allies when my eyes start to shut by themselves. I'm tired, despite being unconscious for however long I was out. The hand I have on the gauze pad is relaxing, barely without my recognition. I can feel my eyes closing, and I'm letting them…

"Hey—"

I jump at the sudden noise and my free hand automatically reaches for the dagger, blindly arcing in the direction of the voice before I even open my eyes. I feel it make contact and there's a cry of pain, and when I open my eyes again, I can see Summer crouching down clutching his arm.

"Oh, my gosh, sorry!" I cry, crawling over the few feet between us. "I didn't—I thought you were someone—"

"I'm fine," he whimpers, looking up at me briefly. Blood is pouring through his fingers from the cut. "Just a little scratch…"

I go back to the medicine kit I took the gauze pad from and grab a bandage, and hand it to Summer. But the blood that's flowing from his arm is so much it would just soak through it, so I end up sentencing him to keep it elevated while applying pressure with another gauze pad. He doesn't object, but Summer rarely objects much anyways.

"I might have to stitch that," I tell him, shutting the kit. "It's going up and down your arm, so it could get bigger if I don't."

He grimaces, but stays quiet. I remember vaguely that he got the healing knowledge enhancement, so he knows all of this stuff as well as—more than—I do.

Swiftly, it becomes too quiet.

"So, Summer," I say to get rid of that quiet. "How are you enjoying your time in the Games?"

Tapping his chin in mock consideration, he shrugs. "Oh, it's great. What better way to spend your day?"

"Than in perpetual fear?" I bring my voice down so the cameras can't catch it. "I'm not sure there is one."

Although, as soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize something: I'm _not_ in perpetual fear. I guess the only reason I said it was because I assumed I was. It's natural to be scared here. And when my name was first called at that reaping, I suppose I _was_ afraid; when my metal plate rose into this very cave, I was afraid again. But, overall, I'm not frightened of death. I'm scared of what my family and my best friend Blaise will go through if I die, maybe, but I am not fearful for myself.

Aside from that, I don't fear this arena, or the Gamemakers either. My parents used to be some of them, until they fled and quit, and maybe me being here is part of their punishment for that—their fleeing. And when you think about it, they're only people too. They're _human_. They were born like us district people, were children once like us, and they will die like us.

They simply have more power—yet significantly lower respect. And if they have no respect for me, I don't see how I'm obligated to give them any. Or what they want most: fear.

Summer and I don't say or do much else until Lia wakes up. And aside from a quick discussion on District Seven Plus One (DSPO, as Summer is starting to refer to her), and her status (which we declare as MIA), we don't say anything more because I don't think we know _what_ to say, let alone do. It's not that any of us aren't leaders, it's just that after being bossed around and getting told what to do (whether you follow those orders or not), and suddenly being set free, you feel a bit lost.

"So," I say finally, standing up and brushing some dust off my pants. I place my hands on my hips. "I say we eat. Now, I think most of the backpacks are gone, but we should be able to hunt down some of those bats…"

I turn around on my heel and pick the dagger that I used to stab Summer off of the ground. "As soon as we stitch you up, Summer," I continue, "we should be good to go. If DSPO is waiting for us in one of those tunnels, then that's that. We'll have to face her eventually, no?"

Lia shrugs, which is probably about as much agreement I'm getting out of her on the subject. I spin around, satisfied, going to pick up another dagger off the ground further away from the Cornucopia for one of their use, when I hear someone sneeze.

"Bless you!" I call back absentmindedly, twirling the dagger in the air and then catching it on the handle. Impressed with myself, I start to laugh and face the others. "Holy, guys, did you see that? I've never done that before—" I cut myself off when I notice their serious faces, eyes large and Summer slowly getting to his feet. Lia stays seated on the ground, terrified.

"Guys?" I say. "You all right?"

Summer shakes his head. He's stopped elevating his arm, so whatever they're worried about must be bad enough for him to disregard that cut.

"Do you want to tell me—?" I begin, but I see her before they do, and my instincts react before I can. "SUMMER!" I shout, tossing the dagger through the air towards him. "Behind you!"

He catches it with his good arm and swings it behind him in one clean movement. The dark head of hair I'd seen coming out of the Cornucopia ducks back down out of sight, just out of the way of the blade. He looks hesitant to stab again, backing up a step on his toes.

I take a step forwards, knife at the ready. This time when she resurfaces it's with a mace. She's much too small to carry it and she seems to know it. The head of it starts for Summer, but he easily sidesteps and the whole thing clatters out of her hands, onto the ground, right on one of Summer's feet. Screaming in pain, he drops the dagger, and the girl hoists herself over the edge of the Cornucopia and flees for a tunnel.

I'm not in the mood for killing, but I throw the dagger anyways. I have terrible aim, though I guess in a moment of panic, my survival instincts kick in, and I can see that just before hitting the ground it lodges itself into her heel.

Instead of falling forwards, like you'd expect anyone would, she lets out one enraged scream previous to pulling it from her foot and doing a weird, yet fast, run/limp/hop thing out of the cave and a little further into the tunnel.

Breathing hard, I watch her.

If you were a real career, I tell myself, you would follow her. If you want sponsors, you would follow her. Right now. Right there. You would run after her, pick up that mace or a knife, and finish her off. And if you don't, be prepared not to have any Capitol support.

But I know what I'm going to do. I'm no career. I didn't choose to be here.

I drop to my knees, now level with Lia, who's still merely just sitting there as if she is too shocked to move. Summer continues screaming in pain. The girl disappears deeper into the tunnel, completely out of our sight.

"Well," I say. "There go our sponsors."

**Bambi Zvoner's POV (FD9)**

I run into the tunnel Angel did after I drop the mace on the District Five boy's foot. I'm scared that they might be coming after me—they're careers, after all—so I keep running, trying to catch my breath and keep my footsteps light against the ground so she can't hear me coming. I still remember the first few minutes in here, tackling her after she had pinned down Senn—

I know what my mom's doing right now: she's sitting at home beside my father, yelling at me to turn around and go down another tunnel. Not to follow Angel to, possibly, my death. But I know the weapon Angel has is arrows, so if I could get her from behind, maybe that twelve she got in training won't even have to matter. Maybe I could kill her. Maybe I could do _something_ rather than coasting along in the middle.

As I run, the tunnel begins to get hotter and hotter until I'm sweating and panting not only from the hot temperature, but because of the thick air. It feels like if I could push the air close enough together there would be a fall of water. Beads of perspiration drip down my temples and forehead and into my eyes, but I swat them away and lick my lips, filled with determination. If I kill Angel…

God, it's hot. Hot and humid. I reach up to push hair out of my eyes to find it standing practically on end, frizzing up into basically one big ball around my head. Cute, I think, putting my hand back down to my side.

When I walk, a limp in my gait from where the knife got lodged into my ankle, no walls move. For some reason, I find this comforting. Like for once things might be going right. For once, maybe I'll have a bit of luck. I didn't during the chariot rides with the horse fiasco—and I certainly didn't during my interview when I tripped in those damned high heels. I didn't when Senn died first, or when Mick found Levve and me, separating us.

I haven't had much luck in my life in the district, either. My mother isn't always… completely sane. My father says it started with her best friend, my namesake, dying in these Games, and then the paranoia began. Maybe she shouldn't have named me after a dead girl. Maybe she shouldn't have had me at all. I'm in danger—I'm always in danger—therefore so is she.

She has nightmares a lot, and I'll wake up to her screaming in the middle of the night, groggy and hearing her shout out my name in a panic. I'll go to her room to see what's wrong, but she'll be curled up in a ball sobbing, my father whispering something in her ear, and upon seeing me in the doorway he shushes me and tells me to go back to sleep. Everything is fine. And when I question it, I shouldn't be, because things really are fine, just fine.

But let me tell you, when you wake up to your mother screaming your name and bursting into tears, crying into her pillow, the only thing that can stop her being the sun slanting through the window the next morning, hours later, you pick up on a few things. Like that everything is _not_ fine, not even when the people that've taken care of you your entire life say so.

I'm sick of fine just fine. "It'll be fine, Bambi," my dad said quietly in the Justice Building, who knows how long ago, as he smoothed my hair back from my face. "It'll be just fine."

But it's not. Not for me, and definitely not for my mother. I can't imagine how—_if_—she'll be able to stand me not coming home. Which makes things unquestionably not for my father, as well.

It makes you wonder if things will ever be—had ever even been in the first place—fine just fine.

At all.

**Nan Weatherall's POV (FD5)**

It's been quiet for the day.

Birch and I have wandered around, not really doing anything at all, not running into anybody. It's really nice. At the end of the day, the two of us somehow wind up back at that cliff we almost fell off of not more than a few hours after the Games first started, and we set up camp there, on the edge. Our camp consists of, really, nothing. Just us. But I guess camp is where the heart is, or whatever.

The two of us sit after the anthem cross-legged, me trying not to cry after hearing Trey's name and Birch picking at the remains of a bat wing. Suddenly he turns his head up to look at me. "How was your life?"

I blink at him. "How was—what?"

He leans back on the palms of his hands and tosses a bit of bat in his mouth. "Your life. I mean, up until the Games. How was it?"

It's an odd question, but I don't mind. I welcome the change of conversation, away from here and away from the Games and away from Trey's death. "Oh, I liked it," I tell him, tucking some strands of red hair behind my ear. "My family is great. I love my parents and my sister a lot."

He continues chewing, slightly raising his eyebrows. I take it as leverage to go on.

"My sister's name is Elisabeth," I say. "She's only eight. She really looked up to me. At least, I think she did. That's what everyone said anyhow." He still says nothing. "And my best friend's name is Calculus. I've known her since, like, birth." Unexpectedly, I start laughing, tucking more hair behind my ears. "This one time, this really mean girl at our school tripped and pushed her in the mud at lunch. So the next day I steal these frogs from the science lab, right? And I put them right into her locker. And, oh my God, Birch, you should have seen her face."

I mimic what her face looked like, pulling my chin close to my neck, widening my eyes and letting my jaw hang, and we both erupt into giggles. Now that I've started speaking, I can't seem to stop. It feels… _good_.

"And this other time," I go, "my family and I were out buying groceries, and Elisabeth was complaining about how bored she was. So us two snuck outside and went into the garden where they grew all the vegetables, where the hoses were, and we had this huge water fight." I have to put both hands over my mouth to muffle the loud hiccups that accompany my laughter. "And the workers came out, and we were scared we were going to get into trouble, but then they started spraying _us_. And everyone got into this _huge_ water fight, and my mother made Elisabeth and me stay out of the house until we dried off because we were _soaked_."

Birch chortles at that, too. I tell him a few other stories, one about how I tripped down the stairs at school and broke my pinky finger, and another about the day Calculus and I tried to talk to her crush, and how she had eaten a mouldy sandwich for lunch, and she ended up puking all over him.

I'm clutching my stomach and my eyes are watering, both from laughing so hard, by the time I've finished telling him everything. It's when I stop talking, in that moment, that I remember where we are. And that I haven't been _that_ happy in such a long, long time.

Gosh, it's nice to be happy.

"But hey," I say, nudging his foot with mine. "Enough about me. What about you?"

He seems to hesitate, so I kick him softly again. He looks up at me. "It's nothing like yours."

I furrow my brow. "Well, nobody's life is the same—"

"No," he cuts me off. "It's _nothing_ like yours."

Our eyes meet for a second, and I can feel myself frowning. This conversation has gotten serious fast. "Birch, I don't care if it was nothing like mine, or if it was exactly like mine." I prod him one last time. "I want to hear it."

There's a pause. We stare at each other, and I can see him mentally debating it. Finally, he takes a breath in. And then spits out, "I was deaf, Nan."

It takes a couple moments for this to sink in. And when it does, I open my mouth to say something, and then clamp it shut again. He leans further back on his hands. "That's why I got that hearing enhancement. I wouldn't be able to hear without it."

I'm following what he's saying, although it doesn't seem like I am. "How—?" I start.

He stares. "Does it really matter?"

Slowly, I shake my head.

"What _matters_," he brushes his messy hair back with his hand, "is that I lost my friends because of it. I liked this girl in my district. We were best friends since we've been seven years old. We worked together every day, picking apples and stuff. I go deaf, and suddenly she's not my friend anymore."

I stare back at him, the frown deepening on my face.

"I mean," he adds quickly, "don't think that I'm ungrateful of my life or anything. I'm extremely grateful, especially to my brother. And parents."

That sparks something in my memory. Something I saw in the reaping recaps. "Is your brother the one you volunteered for?"

Birch nods. "Twins. Aloe's my best friend—been there for me since forever. And we've had great times, too, like you and Elisabeth have. We had an apple eating contest a few days before the reaping because the farm next to ours threw all theirs away." Smiling slightly, that charming smile that's so rare for him, he rakes his fingers through his hair some more. "And I love my parents. Our family isn't rich, but we get by."

"You know," I say, "that isn't _nothing _like my life. It's actually a lot like it. So what if that stupid girl stopped talking to you? She doesn't deserve your worry."

"But I was _deaf_." He shakes his head. "You can't say that doesn't make you look at me differently. You don't think everyone else is going to see me differently when they see this on television? All our supporters?"

I think for a moment before I know what to say. "I do look at you differently, but not in a bad way. You have to be strong to go through that, Birch. And if those supporters we have disagree, then they weren't really our supporters in the first place. They're just… assholes."

"You think that?"

"I always say what I think."

Silence. He picks at that dead bat again, and I don't know what comes over me. All I know is that I can't help it. I throw myself at Birch, arms around his neck. I breathe in his scent. It's a mix between sweat and… well, what Birch normally smells like. Just _him_.

We stay in that embrace for a little more, resting our heads on each others' shoulders. I want to stay here forever. I feel content and safe like I did back home, and happy and warm like I did when I was surrounded by my mom and dad and Elisabeth and Calculus, and all like I did before these Games started.

**Angel Kramer's POV (FD8)**

God, they're all pathetic.

It's disgusting. Insulting, even, to know that I'm considered a part of the same Games as they are. The same _species_.

You're wondering why I didn't kill those three idiots, aren't you? Do you see the pleasure in killing unconscious people? Do you see how the others could've woken up and interrupted me,_ shortening_ the deaths? Because I do not. And I do. I do not kill people who won't feel every single part of it. Of course, I will kill them eventually. Eventually, I will kill everyone. But sometimes you must be patient. Sometimes you must wait until you have the perfect opportunity to hit them—when they don't have other people to hide behind.

But I'll be back. When they least expect it, I'll strike. I'll be a snake lying in the grass until I need to be, and then, at the ideal moment, I'll show up and sink my fangs into them. Poison them. _Destroy_ them.

I can't wait to see the light slowly drain from every single one of their eyes.

**Surviving Tributes:**

**District One: None**

**District Two:**

**Lia Kingston**

**District Three:**

**Anna-Marie Schleben**

**Farrow Alliyatt**

**District Four:**

**Peyton Bieda**

**District Five:**

**Nan Weatherall**

**Summer Whitesell**

**District Six:**

**Levve Morton**

**Mick Revelain**

**District Seven: None**

**District Eight:**

**Angel Kramer**

**Naller Mahlon Versteeg**

**District Nine:**

**Bambi Zvoner **

**District Ten: None**

**District Eleven:**

**Birch Coleo Jernehy**

**District Twelve:**

**Calla Lilly Warbucks**


	34. Mirage

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games, or these characters. **

**A/N: Once we're down to the final ten, I'm going to start putting in some of the characters' pasts in flashback form, so the chapters will be longer. :)**

**Thanks to everyone who's reading/reviewing! **

**Farrow Alliyat's POV (MD3)**

The District Seven girl dies. Anna-Marie rounds on Calla, but I stop her. I remember the conversation the two of us had on the roof the night before the Games started. How we made a promise we would not kill each other. I guess by Anna-Marie killing her it wouldn't necessarily be breaking that promise, but it wouldn't be honouring it, either.

Anna-Marie looks at me. "Farrow," she says. "She will have to die. And if we kill her now she won't even feel it."

"Leave her," I say in a mild tone. I know that my logic doesn't make sense to either of them, Anna-Marie or Naller. But I am, sort of, the leader of the alliance, and I don't mean that to be said in a cocky or arrogant way. What I say goes ninety-nine percent of the time. With one last look at Calla's unconscious form, blonde hair concealing her face, I start in the other direction down the tunnel.

The two follow, Anna-Marie a bit stubbornly and Naller making a sarcastic remark about how he's going to get sunburnt if the Gamemakers keep the sun shining like this. Anna-Marie and I laugh.

At this point, we haven't been too worried about staying quiet. The only alliance we actually fear running into is the careers, and even they can't be everywhere in here. Besides, that District Seven girl just died, plus Sale got eaten about an hour ago, and if that doesn't satisfy the Capitol enough for the Gamemakers to keep us away from the careers for now then I don't know what will.

"Anna-Marie," says Naller as we walk. "How did you know the ceiling would break away at that part?"

Tentatively, she shrugs, bending over to wipe some dirt off the bottom hem of her shirt. I can't see her expression with her hair in the way. "I'm not sure… I just kind of knew."

"You told me to take a step back," Naller pushes. "You knew exactly where to look."

"I suppose I did." She can't seem to look at the two of us; she keeps her eyes straight ahead at what appears like a never-ending tunnel. "Maybe I retained some of that… what did you call it? Something knowledge?"

"Navigational," I put in, and she nods and gestures towards me. "Yeah. That."

"I guess that could be it," says Naller finally, and, wherever we're walking to, we do it without saying anything else.

**Summer Whitesell's POV (MD5)**

After Peyton bandages up my foot and stitches my arm, I take one look at my token, that leather cuff around my wrist, and receive this huge burst of determination. It was both of my brothers' token while they were in the Games, and maybe it didn't turn out so great for them, but I'm certain it might for me. I'm here for them. I'm here for my little sister. I'm here for my girlfriend. I'm not here for my father, despite what he may think. I don't know if I'll ever forgive him for breeding my brothers and my little sister and me this way.

"Hey!" calls Lia, who had walked over to the girl that had jumped out of the Cornucopia's escape route. "Sh-she dropped these."

She holds up what looks like glow-in-the-dark potatoes. Really, the only time I've ever had potatoes before is in the Capitol. They brought us some for dinner one night, hot and steaming from the oven, skin still on, with a white kind of cream drizzled over the top. Seeing as it was one of the best things I've ever had in my life, I walk over to where Lia stands and pick one up off the ground, taking a huge bite and swallowing it without chewing.

"S-summer," Lia says unsurely, "stop. I would-dn't d-do that if I were you."

"Why?" I ask with another large bite. "It tastes fine."

"They_ glow_." She's staring at the potato in my hand as if it's some sort of nuclear bomb that's about to explode. "You d-don't eat things that glow."

"You do if they taste this good."

Maybe Lia's right, and maybe it is foolish of me to be eating a glowing potato. But that girl had them, didn't she? She must've eaten them. And she seemed perfectly fine when she dodged my knife and dropped that mace on my foot.

Lia watches me wolf down the rest of the potato, offer her another lying on the ground, and when she refuses I go on and ask Peyton if she would like it. She knocks it out of my hand and says that it looks poisonous, just wait until we hunt down some bats—but I'm starved and I haven't died yet. So when she's not looking I basically shove that one down my throat, too.

I haven't come all this way to die of starvation, or that disease you get when you haven't got enough vitamin C. The man that handed me the potato at the Capitol told me that the skin of it had a lot of vitamins in it and to 'eat it all up', so I'm sure these potatoes could keep me going for days.

"Summer," says Peyton firmly. "I'm telling you that if you don't puke those up, then you are going to die."

They taste great. I pretend I can't hear her.

It's the next day, and I have an awful stomach ache.

I'm guessing that maybe those potatoes were old or something like that, because it feels like I am going to explode. But I only ate three. And they were supposed to help—they were supposed to have vitamins in them.

"What are you doing?" Peyton asks me, spinning around on her heel with her hands on her hips. I'm bent in half because of my stomach—squishing myself together seems to help a little, but I find after standing up it's ten times worse than it had been before.

"Looking at the ground," I reply. _Great excuse, Summer_.

We're in a tunnel, searching for bats to eat. Peyton is holding a knife. Lia's arms are full of sticks of dynamite, matches, and the ball of string we're unrolling so we can find our way back to the Cornucopia.

"Why?"

I don't even want to look up at Peyton, because I know if I do, she'll probably take one look at my face and realize I'm lying. Not to mention that it'll hurt to move my pinky finger out of this semi-relieving position.

"Well… why not?"

She and Lia don't say anything for a moment. Then: "All right. If you say so. When you're finished with that, we'll be further up the tunnel, okay?"

"Okay," I say, and listen to them walk away. When I hear them round the corner we had been approaching, I collapse onto my side and curl up into a ball with my arms wrapped around my stomach. I close my eyes and hope that everybody watching this just thinks that I'm tired. Including my mentor. Hell, if I get out of here, my mentor is going to kill me for appearing so weak anyways.

Except, I'm not weak. I feel weak right now, but this would probably be the first time, and in general, I'd like to think I'm a pretty strong guy. As strong as both of my brothers were—although then again, neither of them got out of the Games alive to prove it.

Aware of the cameras and eyes that could be on me, I force a yawn and rub my eyes. It's better to be tired than to show pain here, I'm sure.

I clench my fists and squeeze my eyes hard to release some of the pain. I swear, I'm going to explode. Unless Peyton was right? Unless I just need to puke?

I don't think I have a choice, because my other option is to stay stranded on the ground in pain. Thinking of my brothers—my little sister—my girlfriend—I roll over onto my knees and stick my finger down my throat. I gag, but nothing comes up. So I try it again, and this time I can feel those potatoes rising—

Something happens inside of me before they reach the ground. I can taste blood in my mouth. My stomach is—expanding. Exploding. Or something. It's too much pain, I can't tell what's happening; I can't even tell that I screamed until Peyton and Lia are running towards me, and Lia's screaming too and Peyton's gasping and kneeling beside me—

"Summer, sit up." She pushes my back so it's against the wall, but I can still taste the blood in my mouth, and I'm still spitting it up to the side. "Look, Summer, you have to try and puke."

I'm ready to stick my finger down my throat again obediently when the next wave of pain hits inside of me. This time it hits what I think might be my lungs, because I can no longer breathe, let alone get enough air to retch up those fucking potatoes. I'm still puking up blood and—now acid.

"Take a deep breath," Peyton's saying calmly, although I know that I can't. I just don't know how to explain that to her without air in my lungs. Without my lungs.

One more wave, eruption, of pain inside of me and I recognize that that's it. It's in my upper left chest, where my heart is, and a whole lot more blood piles into my throat and out of my mouth before I go limp. I can't feel anything. You'd think I'd feel pain, maybe, but all I can do is taste the acid from my stomach and blood lingering on my tongue.

"I'm sorry everyone," I think I croak through the taste. "But, Dad… screw you."

I surrender to it.

**Bambi Zvoner's POV (FD9)**

After what feels like hours and hours of walking, although for all I know it could really be only minutes, I have no choice but to collapse. I'm sweating so badly it feels like I jumped into a pool and wadded out, soaked. I'm feeling light-headed. I have no water, but I'm losing it fast. I know that if I can't find it soon… this could be it.

I'm not sure what happens to me, right then, sitting there. For a moment, it feels as if I walk out of consciousness, lingering just over a dream state. But, quickly, I'm brought right back to the present, sitting on the semi-comforting cold rock ground.

And that's when I see her.

She's about my height and size, but maybe with longer legs. Her long, dark hair reminds me a bit of my own, before I cut it shorter for the Games. We look something alike—aside from our eyes. Mine are bluish, greying around the pupil if I'm in a bad mood. But hers are dark, extremely dark, darker than the tunnel behind her. They're wide and round, and as she walks, her hair swishing along her back and her eyes focused on some point in the distance, I, somehow, know who she is.

Only feet away from me, she doesn't stop. She stalks right past with the authority of someone who knows exactly where they need to go and how they're going to get there. I watch, stunned, drawing my legs underneath me and out of her way.

It's only when the back of her dark hair disappears into the shade of the tunnel ahead do I catch my breath. "Wait!" I choke out, perspiration dripping off my upper-lip and into my mouth. I scramble to get to my feet, careful not to step too hard on my bad ankle. "Wait, please!"

I find my pace following my first few, clumsy steps, and run after her. She's here. In this maze. And if she's here, then anyone could be here. My father could be waiting behind this wall. My mom could be around the corner she just vanished into. I need to find them, I think. They're here. I need to find them. And when I do I'll run into their arms and they'll smooth back my frizzy hair and tell me that everything is going to be fine, just fine, and I'll let myself believe them.

"Bambi!" I cry out into the shadows. It's weird, calling out my own name. I stop just before the corner. "Please, come back!"

Nobody appears. "Hello?" I say, reaching my head around.

She screams.

As soon as I hear her, I scream in return, and rush further into the tunnel, filled with such sudden adrenaline I totally disregard the hotness, and the humidity, and the slight dizziness and nausea most likely from water loss. I mean, she's in trouble. She can't be in trouble. If she's in trouble then my parents could be, too.

"Bambi!" I shout. I run like it's my own life on the line. And it very well might be. "_Bambi!_"

My eyes adjust slowly to the darker tunnel, and when they do, I see her sprawled on the ground. She's lying on her back, hair flowing in waves away from her head, limbs at awkward and almost grotesque angles. Her one elbow is protruding the opposite way it should be; it's bent behind her back and her hand is dangling off her other wrist like wind-chimes blow in the wind. I rush over to her; reach out to her, to touch her arm, I don't know why, I have to let her know everything's okay even if she can't hear me or feel me—

She disappears. My fingers brush not solid flesh, but instead air. She slips right through my fingers before I realize what's happening, and then she's gone and I'm kneeling in a dark, empty, boiling hot tunnel. For a moment, I hold my head, wondering if maybe the Capitol took her.

But somewhere in the back of my mind, the hot temperature sets in. The surroundings. That something tells me that _I _created her. I did this. Mirage—it's a foreign word, I haven't thought it before, but I know what it means.

I refuse to believe it.

"Hello."

I start and find myself on my feet in a matter of seconds, standing in the spot Bambi disappeared from moments ago. Now, I'm facing Angel. Blond poofy-haired, wild-eyed, dirty Angel. She's holding an arrow dripping with—poison?

"You!" I say. Suddenly everything makes sense, like a light bulb going off in my head. Of course I didn't _make up_ Bambi. She was here, but Angel killed her. I gesture manically towards Angel. "You killed her, didn't you!"

She doesn't flinch, blink, or take her eyes off of me, just cocks her head a bit to the side. Her voice is loud and hollow in the tunnel. "I've killed a lot of people."

"You've—you've done it." I gesture to the spot where Bambi had laid. "How _could_—my mother's already so—"

Before I can finish, she tackles me. I put up a good fight, I think. I can feel my nails scratching against skin and drawing blood, and my hand is grabbing onto a chunk of hair and yanking it, and all I can think of is how I have to do this for Senn and my parents and Bambi. But thirty seconds later she has me pinned to the ground and I'm stuck there, still flailing my limbs uselessly.

She stares down at me with an expression that on most people would appear neutral. On her, with hardly any light around us and a solid black ring circling her blue pupils, it makes my heart jump.

"I believe," she says calmly, still not blinking, "in my interview, I told everyone I would kill you by tearing your arms and legs from your body."

I don't respond. I remember it. And I think she can tell by the way she goes on in a soft and soothing voice, legs pinning my arms to my side, stroking her poison-coated arrow, "So… I ought to kill you how I promised."

She wipes her arrow off on my shirt, and I manage one final kick before she sinks it into my shoulder. I scream. My skin is burning. _Sizzling_. The heat doesn't help.

_I let her down_, I think. _I let _everyone_ down._

Another stab to my shoulder, this one deeper.

_My mom. My mom's going to be broken._

Ripping. Sizzling. Burning. That's all I can process before she starts stabbing at my other arm.

_And my dad—he'll stick with Mom, I expect. I mean, of course he will._

Now she's moved onto my legs, and I've stopped flailing. I was screaming at first, but I stopped that, too, and trying to stare up at her through the pain with as much dignity as I can.

_I might've broken my mom forever, actually. Look how long it took her to get over Bambi's death. But—right—at least Dad's there._

Angel's sweat is sliding down her face and dripping onto me as my blood flows onto the ground. I considered looking at the damage, but I can't. I'm in so much pain I have no pain—which, from my survival instincts, tells me I'm not going to last much longer.

_And this Bambi girl… I guess I've disgraced her name, dying like this. Maybe I'll see her, wherever I'm going, and I can apologize, and she'll forgive me._

The pain's gone, now, but I can still vaguely see Angel stabbing at my thighs with a bloody arrow point. With the last bit of energy I have and the last breath I'm able to draw I gather a mouthful of saliva, sweat and blood, and spit it right at Angel's face.

_Yeah,_ I think, closing my eyes, _I hope she'll forgive me._

**Mick Revelain's POV (MD6)**

A wall can't hold me back.

I'll find her.

And then I'll kill her.

I'd swear it on my sister's grave.

**Surviving Tributes:**

**District One: None**

**District Two:**

**Lia Kingston**

**District Three:**

**Anna-Marie Schleben**

**Farrow Alliyatt**

**District Four:**

**Peyton Bieda**

**District Five:**

**Nan Weatherall**

**District Six:**

**Levve Morton**

**Mick Revelain**

**District Seven: None**

**District Eight:**

**Angel Kramer**

**Naller Mahlon Versteeg**

**District Nine: None**

**District Ten: None**

**District Eleven:**

**Birch Coleo Jernehy**

**District Twelve:**

**Calla Lilly Warbucks**


End file.
